Living Despite It All
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Malik's name is meant for a boy, for a leader of men. It's a cruel gift from her mother, but she bears it anyway.
1. Chapter 1

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Recovered my files off a corrupt hard drive, and found a WIP I started for one of the original kink memes. I never finished it, but have quite a bit invested into it. I can't find the prompt now, but a request was made for always a girl Malik. Will add characters as they come into the fic. Yes, eventual Altair/Malik. There will be F/F and F/M though the story.

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Malik is old enough to understand that her name is odd. It's a boy's name and she is teased mercilessly about it until she learns how best to silence the taunts with a closed fist. She is not old enough to understand why her mother gave it to her. The steel-eyed woman provides food, shelter, clothing, and nothing else for the two children she rarely acknowledges.

Malik is old enough to understand why their mother does not come back one day. Kadar does not though and cries for days. She is not old enough to understand what she must do about it. They stay in the small room they have lived in all their lives until the food runs out.

Malik is old enough to understand how to get food. She watches in the markets for hours until she is able to walk through and grab a piece of bread or an untended coin. She is not old enough to understand why leaving Kadar alone to get food is bad. When she returns there are two men looking at Kadar's teary blue eyes and debating how much he will sell for.

Malik is old enough to understand that she needs to run. Kadar cries at the scratches on his face, but Malik has enough to deal with trying not to drop her brother as the shouts begin behind her. She is not old enough to understand why it is only a group of children that helps them escape. The bread she still clutches is enough to buy Kadar and herself a spot in the hovel they are led to.

Malik is old enough to understand that spot can be kept, that Kadar will be watched and safe, _if_ she works. She is brought to the market again and taught how to steal more than she thought possible. She is not old enough to understand fully what she is doing. Not nearly old enough, but that does not last long.

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The pain is horrible and Malik screams. It sounds high and reedy even through the pounding in her own ears. She sobs as it ends, drawing in great gasping breaths of air to replace the air that has rushed out of her.

"Filthy little thief!" One of the guards yells. Malik sees his booted foot draw back again through her tears and cries out as it connects with her side. "Think we would not see your thieving little hands!?"

"I did not!" Malik sobs, curling up around the blazing ball of pain in her side. Lying for all the good it will do her. She tries to make herself smaller on the ground as another blow comes from behind. "I- I swear! I did-!"

One blow hits her head, and her sight swims at the pain. Malik does not realize she is screaming again until she cannot breathe. Her vision goes white and there is nothing else in the world for Malik. The pain is so intense she does not notice the individual kicks. Nor does she notice the surprised shouts or the gasps as the guards fall. She only slowly notices that the pain is fading from sharp blows to a spreading ache when a man kneels next to her. Dark eyes peer at her from the depths of a white hood and Malik tries to scream again but chokes on her own tears and the salty tang of blood.

"Shh," the man soothes, picking her up despite her weak struggles. His hands bringing more pain, not one inch of her body free of it. "Easy, child. I will not hurt you."

Malik whimpers as something _shifts_ under the man's searching hand sending new waves of pain across her chest. It is enough to make her stop struggling. Enough to make her not care who the man might be or what he might want. She just wants the pain to _stop_.

"They made a real mess of you," shouts echo behind them and the man shifts his grip to hold her tighter. "It might be best for you to pass out, boy."

Malik gasps as the man starts to run. The pace jolting every ache and wound on her. Fortune favors her though, and Malik loses consciousness within the first three steps.

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Malik watches the man from behind a crumbling wall.

He is sitting on a bench with his hood drawn low to shade his eyes. She cannot see his face properly, but even if she could Malik would not be able to recognize him as the man who saved her weeks ago. She remembers very little of the incident besides pain. All her knowledge of the event after the first few kicks comes from the scholars who had tended her wounds until she could crawl out of the pallet they made for her, and the rumors that had circled so briefly on the streets.

Gamal assures her that he is the same man though. That there is no mistaking the dangerous air of a man who kills for a living.

Malik swallows and sinks down into a crouch, lacing her fingers through her toes as she tries to convince herself to run away.

Gamal is older and knows of the Assassins very well, and has told them all stories of the ruthless men who turn the streets into their own personal hunting grounds. They fly from high buildings to rip their victim's hearts out with their own hands. Hearts they give to their master who holds regular bloody feasts. The Assassins ran through the night, looking for unwary children to kidnap. Cutting the throats of anyone unlucky enough to see their faces.

And they save little thieves from vicious guards.

Malik owes this man a debt. If not for her very life then she owes him for saving Kadar from losing the last of his family. Against that all of Gamal's stories are meaningless. She gets to her feet and looks to be sure the man is still there before entering the crowded streets. Winding, unnoticed through the mass of people as quickly as she can. Not allowing herself to think about it anymore.

Her heart still pounds a harsh beat against her aching ribs as she nears the bench.

"I've heard you are looking for Jumah," Malik says as soon as she is seated. Her words shake just a little and she bites her lip as she _feels_ the man's attention swing toward her.

"Did you?" The man does not shift at all. Giving off all the appearance of being asleep. "And why would you be so interested in this?"

The answer to that is very easy and very obvious, calming her just enough to not stutter, "Because I know where he is, and you saved my life."

"Ah," the man hums thoughtfully. Head finally tilting enough for Malik to see under his hood. A surprisingly lined face peers down at her, and Malik is so shocked at how _plain_ he looks she forgets that she should be afraid. "It's hard to recognize you without all the blood covering you, child."

"The bruises aren't enough?" The sarcastic question slips out past Malik's nervousness.

The man laughs. A rough sound that matches his worn face and dark eyes. It's a kind sound, something she has never heard except out of her own mouth towards Kadar.

"Well then, little one," the man reaches out, slowly as if to a skittish animal, and rubs her hair in a gesture she's seen some fathers use with their sons, "tell me what you know."

And, with an oddly pleased feeling, she does.

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The man's name is Hamid.

Malik doesn't know if that is his real name or an alias. It doesn't matter much to her though as Hamid becomes a familiar figure around Jerusalem. She sees him at least once a week. Sometimes, he seeks her out, and for a bit of food -or even coin sometimes- she tells him what she knows. Sometimes, she only sees something flutter high above the streets, or a white robe in front of her that always disappears before she can catch up to Hamid. Sometimes, she sees him peering down from the ceiling when she sits with the scholars continuing the reading lessons started when she was recovering.

Malik should be suspicious of the regard, but she cannot force herself to be.

The scholars know Hamid and his kind well. They gently correct many of the exaggerated stories Gamal has told her. She learns of the Assassin's true nature then, the nature of their work, and begins to go out of her way to find information for Hamid. Listening to the rumors as she filches a coin from a talkative merchant, or paying attention to which of the guards were more inclined to vices. Looking for and anticipating the things that will draw Hamid out of the fortress in Masyaf.

She begins to notice the white robed men more often. Their hoods marking them as much as their red sashes and the air about them as they walk with their heads bowed down like the scholars do. Malik watches them and is often watched right back, but only Hamid ever speaks to her.

Kadar adores Hamid. The few times he seeks Malik out while in the company of her brother he has always had an extra sweet for the boy. It's a little gesture that endears him to Kadar a little too easily but makes something ache in Malik's chest when she is given her own sweet all the same. Were it anyone else she would be suspicious and ready to lash out, but Hamid has proven himself to be trustworthy in many ways.

Malik's gender comes up exactly once.

It's something she keeps hidden by choice because it is easier that way. Gamal is getting older and the way he looks at the few girls that run with them is growing increasingly dark, the way men used to look at her mother, and Malik knows nothing good can ever come from that look.

Kadar knows her gender, but is still too young to understand why it matters. The scholars know, but they keep silent for their own reasons. Reasons that have everything to do with Hamid, but Malik does not know that until the day the older man expresses something that sounds like concern over the developing curves and lumps she has taken to hiding clumsily behind even more tattered clothing.

Malik stammers and feels her face heating as she looks around the room they are in. She knows not what to say, having long been convinced that Hamid thought her a boy.

"The Master," Hamid says that day, and Malik goes silent because she has learned to respect the reverence in the man's voice when he talks about the old man, "has taught us that nothing is true, and everything is permitted."

Malik squirms in her clothes, feeling the cloth brush her chest which is starting to deform and ache oddly. "Everything?"

"Everything," Hamid states with a finality that is reassuring to hear. He picks up the tome they had been reading from and hands it back to her. Dropping his concern and demanding she read the next part aloud. Gently correcting her when her words stutter until Malik is once again reading fluidly.

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Malik sits in the untended garden of some widow too old to climb the ladder and tend it properly. The brittle plants twist and snap under her weight and she methodically snaps the branches off of a long dead bush. After a few hours the plant is almost completely destroyed. The bells have stopped sounding and Kadar will be worried if she does not return soon.

Malik starts to break the pile of branches up into even smaller pieces.

"There you are."

She jumps up at the voice, whirling to see Hamid climbing over the wall. Making no noise as he settles himself in beside her. Palming the hood of his robe back far enough for her to see his laughing brown eyes. "Do you know how much trouble I had because of you, little one? It's hard enough to terminate a target without the bells sounding for some foolish child."

"Sorry," Malik apologizes though she knows that Hamid means his words in jest. She still feels like she's been chastised. She goes back to her pile of twigs, shoulders hunching in as she feels Hamid's eyes settle on her.

"You are upset you had to kill him," Hamid says, though the lilt of his voice turns it into a question.

She stares at the dry soil under her feet. An ashen grey that contrasts with the red-brown dirt on her feet. She does not want to answer Hamid's question. She does not even want to think about it. It's why she has stayed hidden so long after the search has been called off. But now she cannot ignore it and the answer that comes to her is simple. Horrible but still simple.

"No," Malik finally says, her voice so low she almost hopes Hamid did not hear it.

"No?" Hamid doesn't sound upset or outraged, simply curious.

Malik chances a look at the old man. He looks serene and removed from the world around him. She hates that look, because it means he already knows the answer to something and is waiting for her to reach the answer on her own. It is irritating yet comforting in its familiarity.

"No, I am not upset. I am-" Malik struggles with the words. Trying to pin down what she had felt as the knife had sunk into flesh, as dark red blood welled out, as the guard had collapsed and died. "I do not feel anything."

Hamid hums. It's a neutral sound that gives her no indication about his thoughts.

"Hamid," Malik feels a stir of panic, the same one she had felt only when hiding from the guards earlier, "is that alright?"

The older man turns his head to look down at her. The hint of a smile touching his lips and not matching the solemn words he says in the least, "No, not at all, little one."

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Kadar loves Masyaf.

To be truthful, Malik does too, but she doesn't admit it out loud. Not after the fight she put up when Hamid took them both away from Jerusalem. Spiriting them away from the only city they had known in the darkness after the sun went down. Thrusting them into a strange new world where a man like Hamid draws no attention no matter what he does. Where men and boys from all different places learn to fight and kill in the citadel above the city.

Where _she_ learns now.

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted," Hamid often quotes his -their- Master's words to her. Dark eyes laughing even though he shows no other sign of being amused when she spits vicious words about having to reveal her gender to the Brotherhood. It hasn't escaped her attention that the only women in the Order spend their time in the well-guarded Garden that only a few are allowed into.

The thought of joining them had made he snarl and nearly run until Hamid brought her further into the citadel and introduced her to the Master. The man was even older than Hamid, and his wisdom draped around him in an almost tangible aura that made Malik bite her tongue as the man smiled. It was not a nice or kind smile, it was pleased and calculating but benevolent all the same. His hand was warm on her head but firm, "Welcome to the Brotherhood, Malik. Learn our Creed and abide by it and you will go far," the Master leaned down then, and his last words were not new, but they were for her alone. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

She hears those words often in the weeks that follow her introduction as a Novice of the Order. She hears them from the lectures of the teachers to the reluctant grumblings of the boys she bests when the older Assassins teach the newest recruits how to fight. A messy business that Malik is neither more or less prepared for than the other five boys who make up her peer group. Of them all, Aban is the most tolerable. He is the son of a baker in the city below the citadel and has five older sisters. His grin is unabashed as he tells her that he's used to being bested by girls.

They are taught many things in the first few months of their being there. A constant blur of lessons that pull out absolutely everything Malik has and breaks it down. Rebuilding from the ruins of what she once thought she knew. Lessons and drills that work her mind as much as her body.

It leaves her tired and almost unable to do anything more than to collapse in the room she shares with Kadar. A concession granted to the sibling with no family under the expectation that when Kadar grows older he too will join the Novice ranks. The young boy's eyes are wide with insatiable curiosity as he crawls over her and tries to pull answers from her.

"Your sister is tired, Kadar," Hamid pulls the boy off when she grows too tired to even try speaking any longer. The older Assassin is an almost constant presence now that Malik is pathetically grateful for when he hoists Kadar up onto his shoulders. "Let's go to the market and look for dinner for Malik."

Malik can hear Kadar's excited chatter fade away as her eyes close. She is exhausted and hurts in both body and mind. The dagger she now caries openly digs into her stomach, and her feet sweat in her new boots that still chafe her feet, but she can't be bothered to remove them just now. Not as her tiredness pulls her under into a well-deserved sleep that makes the entire day worth it.

Jerusalem and the streets are very far from her mind, almost a separate lifetime that Malik cannot ever imagine returning to now.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Living Despite It All  
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**A Word: **Yes, eventual Altair/Malik. There will be F/F and F/M though the story until then. And OCs to boot.

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Malik is often up with the first rays of the sun, and rarely asleep before the rise of the moon. Her days are filled with lesson after lesson. A dizzying array of grizzled Assassins barking orders being replaced by strict Rafiqs wielding scrolls.

The insane schedule eases eventually, but by the time Malik notices she's had more time to spend with her brother the mentors have decided it's time to integrate her small group with the other Novices. Their understanding of the basics finally enough to have them learn with the other boys who have been here longer. Malik feels both pride and unease at it as she walks into the training courtyard, Aban next to her and every bit as nervously excited.

Eyes size them up immediately and Malik pretends not to notice that the looks aimed her way are more scornful than not. The Master's word have become her mantra and she knows the best way to deal with the scorn she receives is to prove it wrong.

Lessons are slower now that there are so many more of them. Malik finds herself almost bored by it all before she's tapped to enter the ring with Aban. They spar unarmed, and her friend is the both the closest in size to her and the one least likely to pull his punches. Malik has made him -and others, though they tend to learn slower- very aware of how stupid an idea it is to not go all out with her.

Their combined nerves and the restlessness of having to wait so long to fight makes them both more vicious than they normally would be. Malik spits blood out from a split lip before diving under Aban's fist and driving her knee up into his stomach, her ears ring from his grunt of pain as she lays him out with a punch. Her favoring of her left hand, as ever, comes as a complete surprise to Aban who always forgets.

Malik follows him down and presses down on his throat with her right arm. Blood drips on the ground beside his head as Aban blinks and tries to shake his head clear without choking himself. "Yield," Malik demands and increases the pressure on his neck in warning.

Aban taps out and Malik's ears ring with a silence she hadn't noticed before as she helps the boy up of the ground. She turns and spits a bit of blood out of her mouth as they both climb out of the fenced in arena. Eyes are on her again, and Malik smirks as she realizes they're more assessing than scornful now.

"I think my teeth are loose," Aban complains after the next match begins and attention is mostly diverted. He's got his fingers in his mouth and looks only vaguely upset at the prospect.

"Why shouldn't they be?" Malik licks the last traces of blood away from her lips and tongues the swelling flesh. It hurts a bit but she's had far worse. "They can match your loose lips."

Aban is a good friend and tolerable to be around except for when he takes up his favorite past time of gossiping.

"Do not pretend you don't talk just as much, Malik," Aban says around his fingers. Slurred and cross sounding even with the way his eyes grin at her.

"I don't need to pretend," Malik crosses her arms and bounces a little on her toes. She's still wound up, the little fight not enough after the months of near constant sparring interrupted only by trips to the infirmary or the library. She wants to go again, maybe with one of the older Novices because she's tired of sparring with her small group. Going by the rate of match ups though, she doubts that will happen again today. "I don't take the same pleasure you do in spreading rumors."

"No," Aban's fingers come out of his mouth with a loud pop that makes a few Novices glare at him in irritation. Aban grins at them, unrepentant in a way that has led to him learning how to duck very quickly. "But you do like to listen."

"That's just good sense," Malik sniffs before grinning as Nizar gets flattened by an unsmiling older boy. His scorn of Malik had taken a resentful turn once she learned how easy it was to best the boy by playing up on his expectations of her being weak. The very same rumors she tries to shame Aban for spreading is the source she used when figuring that out. "Sometimes the rumors hold useful things but that's no reason to spend hours _spreading_ them."

"Bah, you'll be begging to hear more soon," Aban turns a grin on her that no one who knows the boy ever trusts. Sly and smug all at once. "About a certain Novice named Altair Ibn-La'Ahad."

The name is unfamiliar to her and Malik frowns, ready to ask what he's going on about now when she realizes Aban is not actually looking at her. She turns to follow his gaze. There is a Novice she's never noticed before, not even in passing in the halls of the citadel, staring at her with narrow eyes. He's a scruffy looking boy with eerie bright eyes that look almost gold to her, and he's far too thin to even look vaguely threatening. Malik must weigh more than him, and she is one of the smaller Novices.

His gaze is scornful, and a sneer lifts his lips up when she glares right back at him. Malik snorts and deliberately turns away from the other boy, transferring her glare onto Aban who looks eager and ready to start talking. "I don't care in the slightest, Aban. He looks even easier to throw than _you_."

"You'd thinks so," Aban's voice take on that lofty tone it gets when he likes to let others know he knows more than they do. "He's like you though, Malik. Small and weak looking, but an absolute monster when you fight him. He's the best, you know? The Master heavily favors him and he's sure to go far."

Malik isn't impressed in the least by Aban's words, and she's not impressed when the Novice, Altair, gets pulled out into the arena with another Novice. The two fight with a sense of familiarity that in no way negates the viciousness of the fight. It ends with the other Novice bleeding from a broken nose. Malik grimaces at the lack of care that Altair shows as he turns his back on the other, not even bothering to help him up to his feet.

"Abbass," Aban says, lowly as the other boy eventually gets to his feet and limps out of the arena with a glare for Altair's back. "People say they used to be as close as brothers once."

Malik really doesn't care, but listens regardless as Aban relates all kinds of outrageous theories as to why they're no longer close. Altair's gaze once more burning into the side of her head. She does not think any of Aban's rumors are true, and is inclined to believe the fault lays in the scornful Altair who can't even be bothered to hold back enough in practice to not cause potentially permanent harm.

Practice goes by fast and far too slow all at the same time. The sound of fists and feet smacking into flesh lulling her into absolute boredom. It's not even a lesson, they're simply sparing to show both groups what the other is capable of. Malik turns to leave when they're dismissed for the day. Plans forming to pry Aban away from his gossiping to get a good spar in before dinner when a voice stops her.

"Why is there a girl here?" Altair finally speaks, closer than she expected. Malik turns her head and sees the other Novice has moved up to stand just behind her. His lips curled up in a cruel smirk as the other Novices watch. Assessing and ready to see which way this will go.

"Why is there an _idiot_ here?" Malik counters and turns to leave the courtyard. She has long learned to ignore remarks like that. It's much easier to teach the boys the error of their thinking in practice than to argue with them. Altair's scorn burns but she's used to it, and she's confident she can break it with her fists soon enough.

Altair doesn't give up so easily though. His voice is light and mocking. "The Garden is the other way, do you need someone to show you the way to where you belong?"

Malik freezes for a moment, because there is scorn and disbelief and then there is _this_. She gives Aban -already wincing at what he knows is coming- a toothy smile before pivoting on the ball of her right foot and slamming her fist into the idiot's face.

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Malik winds up in the infirmary with a dislocated shoulder, but that is fine because Altair is across the room from her glaring over the shoulders of the attendants as his face is sewn shut. The skin of his lips split from an _unfortunate_ collision with her right foot and the stand of weapons that they'd been dangerously close to when the fight started.

Unfortunate only in that it ended the fight before Malik had the chance to get any other good hits in after the bastard dislocated her right shoulder.

Hamid looms over them both. His hood up to shadow his eyes but his lips are pressed thin and tight. "Sparring should _never_ result in this much harm between Brothers."

"She is no Brother! She's a girl!" Altair hisses and then cries out as Hamid snakes a fist over the shoulder of the smirking doctor who had _laughed_ when they came in.

"You will watch your tongue, Novice! Malik is a member of this Order and you _will_ respect the wishes of the Master who has decreed she will be treated the same as any other of the Brotherhood," Hamid twists snake fast and Malik finds herself crying out in turn as his fist finds her head this time. Effectively erasing the smirk that spread on her face at the lecture. "And you! You are _better_ than this Malik. Idiotic words are no reason to lose control of your temper and allow yourself to draw this much blood on your Brother!"

Malik bites her tongue and holds back the protests that Hamid will not listen to. Anger and resentment burning low in her stomach as she's lectured. Her shoulder twinges in protest as she goes tense, but she keeps her tongue silent as Hamid continues to lecture them about the Creed they're expected to live by.

"You _are_ Brothers in this Order," Hamid says, and his head turns to pin Altair before the boy can voice a word. "You are meant to support and rely on each other, not try and permanently harm. I have spoken with the Master," Altair's head snaps up, and Malik feels like curling up in a dark corner at the thought that their fight was brought before him, "and he agrees with me on this matter."

Dread curls up in Malik as she looks at the older man in alarm. She's gotten into plenty of fights in her time as a Novice, she's received plenty of lectures, but that has been it. Perhaps her workload would be increased if Hamid felt it particularly deserving, but nothing further than that. Hamid's grim face tells her that is no longer going to be the case.

"The Master has expressed an interest in having the armory cleaned and all the weapons tended to," Hamid says and the doctor, cleaning up his hands from the blood he's stemmed, starts to laugh again. "He expects the two of you to report in the morning before lessons and in the evening after to work on this task together until it is done. It is his hope that the two of you will gain some measure of respect for each other while helping the Brotherhood."

Malik would sooner make friends with the backside of a leprous ass than Altair. From the furious snarl working its way across the boy's face, Altair feels the same. Hamid does not appear impressed by either of them. "You will begin in the morning."

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Altair becomes a thorn in Malik's side. An annoying one that just won't quit antagonizing her. They trade words and blows on a daily basis during lessons, carefully pulled under the watching eyes of the mentors. Neither one willing to concede anything to the other.

They work through the massive armory of weapons under the watchful eyes of Hamid. Always made to sit next to each other as they clean and sharpen weapons between cleaning out the accumulation of dirt and dust under the wooden racks. Malik imagines stabbing Altair with each sword she sharpens, and the boy does the same going by the sullen glares he sends her way when Hamid glances away. They do not gain the respect that Hamid and the Master wish to impress upon them both in the stuffy confines of the armory.

That comes outside of the room during lessons when Altair deliberately throws himself into sparing matches with her despite any attempts to stop them from partnering. Malik doesn't care much for the attempts and does her best to meet Altair on the arena until the mentors are fed up with it and allow them to have at it. One muttering something about hoping they can get it out of their systems quickly.

They spar every moment they're allowed to. With weapons and without. Malik does her best to erase the smirk that Altair takes to wearing again once the stark black stitches come out of his skin, and the movement doesn't threaten to open the newly scarred flesh. They are evenly matched in skill though, and some days Malik can smirk down at a defeated Altair. Other days she has to swallow her burning pride as she glares up from the ground at the smug boy.

There comes a day when Malik has to think hard about why she's so set on grinding Altair's face into the ground. To remember that because none of the other Novices hit as hard or as fast is not the reason why, and it disturbs her more than a bit to find that she has grown to respect the boy's skills somewhat.

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"Malik!"

She grumbles and curls up tighter under her blanket. Ignoring the hissed name as she slits her eyes open. The sky outside the window is dark and she closes them again tight. "G'to sleep, Kadar," she slurs to her brother. There's still time yet to sleep before lessons begin. The armory is finished and her punishment ended, Malik fully intends to take advantage of the spare time she now has back.

"Malik!" The hiss is closer now, and Kadar shifts on the other side of her. Making sleepy upset noises that really don't match the voice calling her name. "Why are you still asleep?"

"Altair," Malik growls and she's awake as she rolls over to glare up at the other Novice. She can make out his form and the glint of his eyes in the faint light coming in from the fading moon. The boy looms over her impatient in the face of her growing anger. "What do you want!"

"Your lazy ass out of bed," Altair sneers and doesn't even try to keep his voice down low enough not to wake Kadar who stirs again in complaint.

Malik kicks the blanket off and pushes the stubborn ass away from the bed. Grabbing his arm and ignoring the threatening growl Altair gives as she drags him out of the room and into the hall that is slightly lighter. She closes the door before turning on him. "You idiot! Did you forget that yesterday was the last day of our punishment?"

"No," Altair frowns at her as if _she_ were the fool. "I was there when we were released from that duty, Malik."

"Then why are you dragging me from my bed this early?" Malik asks feeling the familiar itch to punch the boy's face start up again.

"Our mornings are free now," Altair explains slowly as if she needs to hear his words drawn out to fully understand them. "We can use the training grounds as we feel fit until lessons begin."

Malik has been looking forward to not having to see Altair's stupid face first thing every morning, to not having to restrain herself from adding to the scar she's already given him. To only having to deal with the idiot during lessons.

"Well?" Altair asks as she gapes at him, at a loss for words for once. He's impatient and starting to shift on his feet, eager to get started. "Are you going to get dressed or will you waste the day sleeping? I didn't take you for a lazy kind of creature, Malik."

It's not the first time Altair has called her by name, but it is the first time she has made note of it. Altair insults her, prods at her pride, and eggs her on in the arena and Malik matches him word for word. He has not, Malik realizes with something close to shock, made mention of her gender in days.

"Did Nizar actually manage to scramble your brains yesterday?" Altair asks and his smirk is growing, eyes taking on a gleam as he finds something to prod her with. "Newborn babes hit harder than Nizar, you obviously need to practice more if he's managing to get hits through your guard."

"At least I have brains to scramble," Malik retorts, the words weak as she spins to return to her room. Kadar sleeps on unaware and Malik pulls the blanket over him before pulling on her clothing and armor. Her lips going tight when she returns to the hall and finds Altair already gone, no doubt to warm up.

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Hamid smiles, "Are you so surprised that it worked?"

"It did not work!" Malik protests as she picks apart her bread, pulling out the soft interior and exchanging it with Kadar who eagerly eats the insides leaving her the hard crust. "Altair is an insufferable ass who needs to prove himself right all the time. We fight _more_ now than before."

"Ah," Hamid drawls out with that same smile firmly in place, "but there _is_ respect there now. Altair no longer sees you as a girl, he sees you as someone worth proving himself to."

Malik narrows her eyes up at Hamid who looks entirely too pleased with himself. It is true, Malik sees it now, and doesn't like the way it makes her chest want to swell at the victory of it because Altair is still an ass. "But it wasn't the armory that led to that. It was me grinding his face into the ground during lessons."

Kadar laughs, and Malik feels her lips curl up in a smile at the young boy's delight in her victories.

"Hm, no I don't think it was," Hamid says and his smile turns mysterious as he refuses any other prod for information until he excuses himself from the meal. Leaving Malik to glare at his back.

"It was the fights," she assures Kadar who nods easily, his eyes already wandering to the crowd of children congregating near the market. Malik sighs but pushes lightly on the back of the boy's head. "Oh, go play, brother."

Kadar is gone in a flash of speed that is a bit surprising. She watches carefully and sees the way Kadar moves, dodging the civilian population and obstacles with an ease that isn't something that comes naturally to her younger brother. Malik wonders where he's been learning to run while she's been learning to fight. It aches a little to realize she doesn't know, that she's been too busy to pay as much attention to Kadar. She decides to try harder. With her punishment over with, her time is freer and it will be little trouble to make sure she is the one who teaches him a few things.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

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Womanhood comes late to Malik, but it's not completely unexpected when it does. Hamid had made sure she was well prepared for it. By the simple method of dragging her down into the city and dropping her into the arms of a gaggle of older women who took a kind of sadistic pleasure in describing every single change she was in store for. The first meeting had traumatized Malik, and the follow up ones were the women actively _sought_ Malik out were no better.

The details are horrifying but not as horrifying as the actuality of it.

The cramps start a few days before the blood starts spotting her underclothing. Her lower back aches, a low grade pain that is bearable but makes her irritated and liable to snap at anything. Not even Kadar is safe and the boy learns the fine art of disappearing into thin air when Malik starts snarling at little things.

When she has to stuff rags between her legs to absorb the blood it gets worse. Her stomach cramps horribly and the only relief she gets from it is in exorcise, but the action makes her bleeding heavier. Malik has to take frequent breaks to change the rags or risk bleeding through her clothing. It's annoying having to change and she spends more time washing than she likes. Also, bathing becomes something that's necessary in a way it hadn't been before.

Sweat and blood is a common enough scent among the Novices that Malik had thought nothing of it until Aban reluctantly informs her that it isn't the same at all.

"It's heavier," Aban mutters, refusing to look Malik in the eyes, and he's probably a dark red under the hood he keeps up. "I can always tell when my sisters are bleeding because the scent fills the house."

Malik grimaces at the warning and lets Aban get away with the bluntness as she adds daily bathing to her quickly forming monthly routine.

The blood is the beginning, but it is not the end.

Malik's body begins to grow noticeably. Not just in height but in shape as well. Her armor starts to grow constrictive around her chest as the malformed lumps that have been growing slowly there seem to grow even faster. Turning round and soft in a way that Malik isn't sure is better or not than what she had before.

They're still small at least, and not large like she's feared from the tales of the women who cackle and prod her chest every chance they get now. At the advice of the women she binds them and with Hamid's help obtains altered armor that fits better over the swell of her breasts. It still hurts just in a way that's her body growing. She gains height as well and her legs hurt more than they had when she first began running across roofs. No amount of massaging her shins or thighs at night helps. It is the very bone itself that aches as it lengthens.

She's no longer the smallest of the Novices anymore though, and that makes the boys irritated. Altair is _spitting_ mad about it, and Malik takes a vicious pleasure in using her new advantage as best she can in their practice sessions. She stumbles a bit at first, but Altair takes advantage of each of them and she quickly learns not to make them. Learns to use the new height and length of her body without tripping herself up too badly.

Hair begins to grow where it had not before, and that only makes things messier when her monthly bleeding begins. Malik contemplates shaving it off when she trims the hair on her head each week. Kept shorn short to not give any advantage in a fight. She does it with a great deal of difficulty, and -once the hell of the hair growing back is over- never does it again.

Malik adjusts reluctantly to the changes, but she adjusts all the same.

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.

Wind caresses Malik's face as she stares out into the suddenly wide and open world around her. The skies are clear and endless on all sides of her as she stares down from an impossible height down to a stack of hay that looks just as impossibly small now that she's not standing next to it.

It's called a Leap of Faith for a reason, Malik realizes as she stands over the drop. Wind pushing her from all sides and the noise of the city fading away. It is the one task left for the Novices to complete on their own. Their bodies taught the drills, the best ways to jump and roll, but the actual jump is something they must do on their own before they are given their first trial and are then expected to show their mettle to the rest of the Order.

"Afraid?"

For a given definition of on their own. Malik isn't even surprised when Altair speaks behind her. She doesn't bother acknowledging him either. He's already done his Leap, sooner than even the teachers wanted, and everyone knows it. Malik is not the last, but she has made sure that she fully understood the Leap before attempting it.

The wooden board she's on vibrates and the adrenaline shooting through her body increases but she doesn't look back. Even when Altair's smug voice sounds too close to her ear. "I didn't take you for a coward, Malik."

She turns then, has to at the challenge, and her eyes are too wide. She can't help that, but her lips twist up in a grin that she doesn't have to force at all. Is she afraid? Yes, but not in any way that is going to stop her.

Malik laughs into Altair's face. His smug grin falls and his eyes go wide before Malik turns away and spreads her arms out to embrace the world, the _sky_.

Jumping isn't something she even needs to force herself to do because she's already in the air. Falling.

The wind rushes through her ears, as the world narrows to the stack of hay she will hit, and Malik only feels exhilaration as her body twists the way it's been trained to. Her back taking the break of the fall, head tucked up and away to keep from smacking on anything hard as she's enveloped in the hay. It continues without thought from her. Her tucked chin guiding her as she pushes the remaining force of her fall into a roll that brings her right back out of the hay stack and onto her feet.

Her heart is pounding and the fear that was there, that did not hold her back, is gone.

There's a crash behind her and Malik turns in time to see Altair roll out of where she exited. His grin is every bit as wild as what she feels like right now, and Malik understands perfectly how the mentors are able to tell which Novice has completed the Leap as she matches that grin.

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They're fast approaching their first trials when Aban lets himself into her rooms one night. He swings Kadar up into the air and throws him around the room while Malik finishes sharpening a burr out of her dagger. Kadar's shrieking laughter fills the room and Malik shakes her head at Aban's antics. He'd always wanted a younger brother, the boy had confessed early in their acquaintance, but all he had were sisters.

"Nizar was chosen to go to Damascus," Aban says after Kadar collapses on the floor. Breathless and grinning from a long day of running wild on top of the play. Aban removes his boots with a sigh of relief before dropping to sit next to him.

Malik pauses and looks up, intrigued by this bit of news. The rumors of a situation brewing in Damascus has been trickling down through the ranks, and only gained traction with the larger than normal number of missions being run through the city. Missions that have culminated in what amounts to an assault force being sent in the next few days. The best Assassins of the Order being told to prepare. "And? So they need someone to take care of the horses, that does not mean much."

"Not according to Nizar," Aban says with a smirk that tells her there's more to his tale telling. Malik rolls her eyes and goes back to her weapons. Testing the edge of the sword Hamid gifted her with. Its awkward in her hands, and won't feel right until she gains just a little more height -Hamid has assured her of this multiple times- but that is no excuse not to take care of the beautiful blade. "He's been telling everyone who will listen of his mission, and quite a few who didn't want to as well. Bragging about his imminent rise in rank."

Malik waits patiently as Aban spins his tale out. The boy won't be rushed, he takes extreme pleasure in the telling and Malik has gotten used to it. Kadar listens raptly, rolling onto his stomach and pillowing his chin on his crossed arms, "Nazir is a fool."

"Exactly," Aban says with a solemn nod. "But that is not the worst of what he's done."

"Do tell," Malik drawls out, finger tapping on the pristine blade she's examining.

"He bragged to Altair."

Malik stops and blinks at her own reflection before looking up to give Aban her undivided attention. Something he'd been expecting going by his smirk. "Is he _mad_?"

It's no secret among anyone that Altair has been fuming at his not being included in the mission when Novices started to get chosen. The fool's pride in his skill is enormous and Malik had nearly gotten her hand cut off a few days earlier for making a jab at his failure to be tapped for the mission. The others have been doing their level best to avoid him.

"Yes, very mad," Aban's smirk slips into a full on grin. His eyes flicker down to Kadar before coming back up and the grin dims a bit. "He's being seen in the infirmary right now, and will most likely not be making the mission after all."

Malik reaches into her belt and tosses a coin at Kadar. It hits his shoulder and clatters to the floor with a sharp noise. "Kadar, go to the market and get us some fruit."

Kadar scowls at the coin and then her before whining, "Malik!"

"I'll wait and tell you all about the fight," Aban assures the boy who reluctantly gets up, the coin disappearing. "There's really not much to tell though. It was over so fast."

"What do you want?" Kadar asks, somewhat mollified by the promise.

"You choose," Malik allows and Kadar's face brightens as he leaves. He's going to return with more grapes than they can eat in a day, the older woman who mans that particular stall has an inexplicable soft spot for Kadar and allows him more than what the coin is worth. Malik waits a few seconds for Kadar to be truly gone before turning back to Aban. "And?"

"Nizar isn't entirely stupid," Aban continues to tell the tale that he hadn't wanted Kadar to hear. "He made sure they were not alone when he began to brag. Altair's temper is quick but he seems to have learned the consequences of brawling with our superiors around to see."

It's a jab at her first meeting with the other Novice and Malik scowls at it. "Oh, stop stalling and tell me what happened already."

Aban arches a reproachful eyebrow at her but complies with her request anyway. "Nizar almost got away with his teeth intact but he made one last comment that proved worth the punishment of brawling. I won't repeat it because I value my manhood remaining attached, but it involved your name and the duties of the concubines."

Malik's eyes narrow and Aban looks a little reluctant as he continues, "Specifically, how they should be practiced on him when he gains a higher rank."

Malik barks out a harsh laugh, her left hand curling around the grip of the sword in her lap. She's more amused than angry at Nizar's continued stupidity. "I'd like to see him try!"

"So would I," Aban says as he relaxes again. "A great many people would like to see that actually. He has bragged a bit too much about people's sisters lately I think."

"As if he even could talk a girl into a kiss, let alone anything else," Malik scoffs as she inspects the sword one last time before reluctantly sheathing it and setting it aside.

"Lies are harmful," Aban says with a careless shrug that's not reflected in his eyes at all. "Altair beat him into unconsciousness before anyone could stop him."

"Hm, good for him," Malik carefully rolls up her cloths and whetstones to put away. Aban remains silent instead of launching into the next rumor he no doubt has saved up. "What?"

"Nothing," Aban says after a few seconds with a grin. "Just some very silly rumors. Did you hear what happened with Rauf?"

.

.

"Ignore him," Hamid says as he forces her to step through the drills that feel like they're ingrained in her very being now. His gifted sword in her hands instead of the duller, heavier practice ones she is used to. It is every bit as awkward to wield as she feared but she persists stubbornly.

"Who?" Malik asks as she steps back and starts over from the beginning. Holding the blade up with her right hand in the guard she persistently fumbles. An obvious weakness that has been used against her one too many times.

"Sa'di," Hamid pushes off from the wall of the empty tower they are using and walks over to correct her. He moves her hands until she's holding the sword with her left. A habit that her teacher, Sa'di, has been working hard to break her of. "It's silly superstition that makes him tell you differently. Most people use their right as their dominant hand, but a few are born with the inclination to use the left. There is nothing wrong with it. It can actually work to your advantage as most opponents will not be used to it."

Malik fumbles the drills again, but it feels better. She has more control this way and Hamid coaxes her through them again and again until she can hold her guard against the stick he's taken to poking at her weak spots with.

"Good," Hamid eventually says as the sun begins to dip. The stick swinging up to tap on his shoulder. "Remember to ignore Sa'di, and practice like this. Maybe you will be able to finally hold your own against Altair with a blade then."

Malik scowls at the reminder of her many failures in that area. It is one of the few areas they compete in where he is clearly the better, and has become a sore subject.

"I'll be away on a mission," Hamid continues after laughing at her for a moment. Malik pauses in inspecting her sword -even though it fared the better against the stick- and looks up in surprise. Hamid has not been getting as many missions as he used to. His growing age and injuries slowing him down enough that the man has often joked that he would better serve the Order in the robes of a Rafiq. "Messages. I supposed I'm the next step up from a pigeon now."

Hamid says it with humor and none of the bitterness that Malik can easily imagine if it were her having to give up being an Assassin. Some of her confusion must show on her face as Hamid reaches out to ruffle her hair. "Every role is important to the Brotherhood. An Assassin's work is dangerous and of the utmost importance, but never forget that the Assassin cannot work alone. It takes the Scholars and the Rafiq's aide to ensure the Assassin's blade strikes true. And I'd much rather be of use in the library than dead on the streets."

Malik smiles as Hamid laughs, conceding the man his point.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **And here we get to the Malik/OFC and Malik/OMC.

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* * *

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Her fellow Novices reach their maturity seemingly overnight and Malik is dismayed to once again find herself smaller. Altair, in particular, likes to lord his regained height over her. Malik, in return, likes to laugh at the way his feet seem to have gotten too big for him.

"You're bound to go far with that kind of stealth," Malik dryly remarks as she finishes pulling on her boots. Altair curses as he untangles himself from the rug that had been perfectly flat the night before when she placed it in front of the door. Confident that even that would be enough to trip the growing young man. It's too dark still to see but she's sure his face is red with abject humiliation. "You should learn to knock."

"You should learn to be quiet," Kadar growls from the bed. He's a lump of sleepy discontent under the blankets as he growls at them both. Tongue sharp in a way it never is when he's fully awake. It'll be amusing seeing her brother handle the early schedule when he joins the ranks of the Novices in a year. "And go away."

Altair regains his feet with the air of a cat that's been thrown into water. An apt image because she's _seen_ how Altair reacts to water. His eyes glint in the low light as he pivots and lets himself out of the room. Malik smirks at the closed door, and is already planning out all the ways she can work the incident into their daily sparring. A loud pounding on the door makes her jump and Kadar nearly howls.

Malik stomps up to the door and opens it to glare at Altair's smug face. "Oh, look, he _can_ be trained. Don't forget to buy food, Kadar, I'm going to be busy beating an idiot to go to the market."

"I'll beat you both!" Kadar calls out as Malik closes the door and aims a kick at Altair's face. The Novice evades it easily enough, only stumbling slightly on his feet. He's getting used to his changing body, unfortunate. She's going to have to actually start working hard to keep his head from swelling beyond all reasoning.

"Your brother has your black tongue," Altair comments as they make their way through the silent halls to the training grounds. The sun isn't up and most people are still safely in their beds, and will remain there for a few hours yet. It's calming in a way that Malik likes.

Altair goes for the practice swords like Malik suspected he would. Their last two matches in that area have gone in Malik's favor and Altair burns to regain his ground.

Blade clashes with blade in the early morning. The first parry enough to banish any of the remaining tiredness clinging to Malik. They go slow by a mutual agreement that they never speak of. Warming their muscles up with an almost playful spar that only happens here in the early morning when no one is around to see.

This too is calming in its own way. It does not last long though.

"The Master has deemed me ready for the trials," Altair says as he lashes back against her strike with more force than needed. Conserving strength a foreign concept to him as always. Malik feels the hit shiver up her arm and lets the almost meditative trance she's been in fall away. "I leave tomorrow."

Altair is not the oldest in their group, but age has little to do with the decision on if a Novice is ready to rise in rank. Malik should know, she is one of the last to join this group and Hamid has already informed her she's ready for her own trials. Hers are still weeks away though, because Hamid insists on taking her himself and she must wait for his return.

"Oh?" Malik says, deliberately light as she spins and aims a vicious slash at his lower legs. Forcing him to concentrate on evading and not tripping over his feet at the same time. He manages the move, but he's scowling over how easy it obviously was not for him to pull off. It eases some of the burning jealousy in Malik. "And what shall I say over your grave when you trip onto your own sword?"

The backlash is instant and furious. Altair is not good with words, and his responses to her barbs usually come in the form of swift, brutal retaliation. Malik staggers under the force of the blows and spins away after taking the blunt force of the first few directly. It's another thing she has to grow used to. Altair, and all of the other Novices, are gaining strength in their arms and chests that Malik cannot keep up with. She can meet it, but it takes more work than it used to for her.

She evades what she can and exploits the few openings that Altair leaves in his frustration as he continues to fail to hit her. No more words are spoken until the sun is risen and the sound of the market opening grows loud enough to break the clash of their swords. The scent of freshly baked food coming up on a breeze that cools the sweat on the back of Malik's neck as they both stop. The hunger in their bellies taking over any urge to beat each other. There is no clear winner in this round, but that often happens with them in the morning matches.

"What would you leave on my grave as a token of your regard?" Altair asks as Malik puts the practice blades away.

It's an odd question but Malik doesn't hesitate in her answer because as odd as it is, she has thought about it before. Once or a dozen times. "The markings of my boots as I dance over it in joy at being rid of your presence."

Altair jumps from the wall he had climbed while she answered. Taking his normal, eye-catching route to get food. His laughter trails after him and Malik snorts as she sedately takes the paved path down into the city.

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Sex becomes a favorite bit of talk among the Novices. Following almost on the heels of their voices breaking and their bodies growing. Malik only notices it because the young men get suspiciously quiet when she nears them these days.

"They've seen you with the women in the market," Aban says with a shrug. Completely apathetic only because he has a silver tongue that doesn't stutter like the other Novices' do and just might be the only one among them to actually _have_ something to talk about. The fact that he doesn't is also most likely why he will continue to have things to talk about for a good while to come. "It makes them nervous that you'll reveal the lies they tell each other and ruin their chances."

Malik lets it go with a shake of her head and concentrates on her studies. With Altair and Hamid gone she has ample time to visit the library. Sitting with those who have the time to spare and absorbing what knowledge they have to impart on her. History, legends, and cartography enthrall her easily and Malik almost forgets the Novices' new obsession entirely.

Their whispers are hard to ignore though, and they lose the fear that Malik will tell their tales and then Malik finds she cannot escape it at all.

Pleasure, like womanhood, is something that has grown slow in her.

The tales she hears are alien to her for that reason as well as the fact they are told by young men. Their views not matching up to what little she cares to know about the act of sex. In fact, their increasingly lurid tales make her rather horrified and she's sure that they can't be true at all.

That inconsistency, more than anything else, sends Malik out to the market to look to the women who had taught her so much about becoming a woman before. It's a busy day though and Malik does not find any of them free to speak to her leaving her frustrated, because now she _must_ know.

Her impatience and frustration pushes her rashly, and Malik makes a decision that she knows is probably a mistake.

Merchants come monthly to the city to trade and rest. An ever changing parade of faces that rarely repeats. Their understanding of the Order and the city itself is often flawed and fueled by rumors. Most flinch away from her as she walks through them. It is easy for Malik to find one young man among them that does not though. The son of one of the merchants perhaps, whose eyes stare a little too long at her and is all too eager to follow Malik away from the market.

She does not take him to her room, or anywhere near the citadel. Leading him instead to one of the hidden areas that is still accessible to civilians who cannot climb like she can. Ignoring the way his steps, eager at first, falter when Malik shrugs off her sword and places it within arm's reach.

"Afraid?" Malik asks with a challenging, arched eyebrow that would get her thrown off a roof in a spar with Altair. It gets her only more nerves in this matter.

The man licks his lips and Malik can see in his eyes that he's considering running away. Malik scowls at him and reaches out with her right hand. Fisting his cloth tunic and pulling him into a brief kiss. Perhaps too rough given Malik's only experiences with the act is through watching, but it shifts things in her favor again.

He is taller than her, but thinner and Malik has little doubt she can throw him in a matter of seconds as he pushes her to the ground with hands that sweat. Her robes and armor are not the best suited attire for this, but her decision was impulsive and Malik deals with it. Stripping efficiently only what absolutely needs to come off.

The Novices have talked much about their cocks. In boast and jest, and Malik has used the way they seem to grow hard at the shift of the wind to her advantage more than once. A tactic that gained her laughing praise from the mentors, and a caution from Hamid that it would not be so easy to get the same rise out of older men.

This is the first she's actually seen it happen in the flesh though. Malik watches curiously as it happens. His manhood stands up straight and flushed, his own touch drawing a moan out of him as Malik draws her heels up, her thighs brushing against the scratch of the clothing he still mostly wears. Malik has the time to be annoyed that he has to remove far less than she does before his cock brushes against her. The push in burns and Malik grimaces as the man grunts, his eyes closing in bliss that is _not_ shared.

There is something there, as the man grunts and groans over her. His eyes staying closed and sweat beading up quickly on his face. Some bits of pleasure that slowly unfurls almost delicately under her skin. It's smothered though by the weight of her armor and clothing and the burn of the penetration. The hints of pleasure spike most when she moves, when she meets him, but she's left singularly unimpressed when he pulls out and finishes on the ground all too soon to build on what Malik is just starting to feel.

He scuttles away under her sneer before Malik can even finish pulling her clothing back on. His eyes suddenly nervous again and flicking back to the sword beside her. Malik has already forgotten his name by the time her boots are securely back on.  
It seems like a lot of work and mess for something that isn't really worth it. She's wholly disgusted by it as she makes her way back to her room. Smelling the sweat of the man and the fading burn between her legs.

She tries to put it out of her mind after that. To forget the tales and the sparks that she had briefly felt, but it's no real use. Her curiosity is peaked, and her mind is telling her that can't be it. That little mess of an encounter can't be all there is to it.

Malik goes back to the market the next day. She finds Dima in the shadows of her family's stall. Aban's closest sister in age is still a few years older than them with a husband and child already learning to walk. She smiles at Malik, ever patient, and hears her out.

"Have you tried pleasing yourself, Malika?" Dima asks eventually, her voice low so it does not carry though the streets are emptying as the hottest part of the day sets in. The diminutive that Aban's family uses for her rolling off her tongue easily. Their refusal to call her by her proper name a thing that she's stopped protesting, and simply takes without protest now.

"No," Malik admits and she thinks about feeling embarrassed by the frank discussion, but the emotion seems foreign to her after the other day.

"That should be the place to start," Dima says and hands Malik an empty basket before taking another for herself. Malik follows her through the streets obediently at the silent request. She frowns when they pass the bakery, but keeps her tongue until they are in the home Dima's husband built for their growing family. "Do you know how to please yourself, Malika?"

"I," for all that Malik has listened to the Novices go on about their pleasure, it did not seem like the women themselves gained much. An experience she thought confirmed, but if Dima is certain it's possible she simply must have missed something. "No, I am sure I can figure it out though."

"You can. It is easier than men would have you believe," Dima says with a smile as she takes her head wrap off and folds it over the basket she takes from Malik. "But there are even easier ways to learn if you would like, Malika."

Malik does not understand Dima's words. She does not understand at all until Dima returns, hands empty and soft on Malik's face as she kisses her. Firmly and expertly, a far cry from the mess of lips and teeth that was Malik's first kiss. It is softer and Malik's skin burns pleasantly when Dima pulls back. A shiver working its way down her spine when the woman smiles at her. "Would you like to learn?"

.

.

Dima is right. Malik could have figured it out on her own, but it's faster with someone to guide her. Someone to push her into things she would have not thought to try on her own. Dima is happy to help and Malik spends more free time with the woman than she plans to.

It is easy to learn with someone to show her all the secret places that make her skin light up like it is on fire. The ways a touch can make Malik feel like she's standing on the edge of the world again, ready to jump with just a little more encouragement. The ways to draw that slow pleasure out until it's an inferno burning her up, and making her plead for more. Leaving her shaking and breathless under Dima's hands.

She suddenly understands though the way the Novices will get stupid grins on their faces when someone talks about the soft skin of a young woman's hands, or the way they grow lecherous when talking about wet caverns.

Dima is beautiful in nothing more than her skin. Her dark hair spread out around her and her brown eyes fixed on Malik who feels awkward and oafish above Dima. Dima's soft curves fit into Malik's callous roughened hands, her full breasts pushing against the firm muscle of Malik's body. Her lips soft on Malik's body and pulling pleasure that nearly makes the young Assassin go blind. Thin, clever finger twist inside of Malik as sharp teeth bite gently at her neck and Malik has never, ever been closer to begging than she is when Dima takes her hand and leads her into the bed she shares with her husband at night.

"We are women," Dima whispers against Malik's ears as she delights in Malik's hard hands curving down her body. "This is not adultery, it does not count when it's two women."

Dima sounds like she's trying to convince herself, but as the woman sinks down to her knees Malik find herself not caring in the least. Nothing might be true, but everything is permitted after all.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

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Malik leaves Dima's home on legs still shaking from the pleasure pulled from her and a case of nerves brought on when Masoud came home earlier than anticipated. Their mad scramble to dress so soon after completion had almost made Malik laugh loudly as Dima's husband made enough noise to wake the dead in the main room.

She _did_ laugh when Dima wrapped a head scarf around her and raked her fingers through Malik's short hair. Eyes bright and grin beautifully reckless as she stood between Malik's spread legs.

Which is how Masoud found them.

"Wouldn't Malika make a pretty young woman if she grew her hair?" Dima had asked when the man entered their room to find the source of the laughter. Her fingers tangling in Malik's hair as she pretended to play with it the short strands falling through her fingers too readily. "You must do it now!" Dima laughed and Masoud smiled as the woman leaned down to drape her unbound hair over Malik's head. No doubt giving off the ridiculous illusion of her having longer hair. "She would be lovely, yes?"

"Malika has her own reasons, Dima," Masoud said, smile firm and unquestioning like it would never be if it were any other Assassin in the room. "Quit using her as your play thing and come eat dinner."

"Never," Dima's whispered response still tingles in Malik's ears as she sets off to the market. Looking for a bit of food to bring back to Kadar. Her own lips stretched in a reckless grin that always takes a bit to fade.

"I don't like that look."

Malik stops abruptly and turns to find Altair peering down at her suspiciously. He's crouched on top of a roof and still looks like every bit of dusty road he has no doubt passed through on his return trip. Malik lets her grin grow wider and feels absolutely benevolent towards the annoying man for once. "You made it back alive I see, pity, I was looking forward to dancing."

"I won't stop you from dancing, it just won't be on my grave this time," Altair leaps down to the ground with an easy grace that Malik would envy any other time, but the feel of Dima's lips still lingers on her skin and Malik is willing to tolerate just about anything right now. Altair falls into step with her and does not stop sending her suspicious looks. It's amusing how her good mood seems to bother him. "You're a mess, who have you been fighting with?"

Malik runs her hands over her clothing, still awry from the mad scramble and sets it to rights quickly enough. "No one."

Altair frowns and turns to look back the way she came from. It deepens into a fierce scowl when he turns back and his eyes catch on something. Malik hisses as he brings a hand up and presses a finger against her neck, the gesture more painful than it should be since he is not actually pressing hard. "And does 'no one' fight with their teeth?"

"What?" Malik pushes his hand away and touches her neck gingerly. The ache is of a bruise and Malik's mind flashes to Dima's teeth. Set against her neck when Masoud had come home. She hadn't even felt the sting of the bite at the time. Malik grimaces as she realizes why Dima had thrown the head wrap around her head and neck now. "Damn."

It will be hard to hide but not impossible depending on the shape the bruise is going to take. Attending lessons will be hell if any of the other Novices sees the teeth marks. Malik is giving real consideration into punching her own neck to disguise the tell-tale shape when she realizes Altair is not speaking. Not pushing or prodding for more like he normally would.

"What?" Malik turns to scowl at the Novice, because the only time he passes up a chance to insult her in some way is when he's planning something.

Altair's face is blank though, he's glaring ahead of them towards the citadel. His eyes cut back to her when she punches his arm hard and a frown creases his face again. "Nothing. I have to report in."

"You just returned?" Malik turns and puts even more force into her next punch which Altair fails to even attempt to dodge. She scowls at him. "You idiot! Stop wasting time and go!"

Altair doesn't go though. He stands there still and silent, mouth working like he wants to say something. Malik draws her fist back again and Altair leaps into motion. Jumping back up to the roof tops and bounding away.

"Idiot," Malik shakes her head and continues to the market. Her good mood effectively ruined now by Altair as is usual.

.

.

Altair is promoted and trades in his Novice gray robes for the simple white of an Assassin. The smirk he fixes on her is challenging and so smug her knuckles ache from the phantom urge to punch his face. The man fairly _preens_ in the pristine robes as he takes a Leap in front of them all, and Malik has to grit her teeth to stay her tongue during the ceremony.

He does not appear for lessons that day as befits his new status and Malik uses the bitterness of it to fuel her sword against Nizar. He folds slowly under her attacks. Reluctant to yield even when the fool is close to getting his throat cut open. The mentors have to call the match and send him away.

Altair does not appear for the rest of the day, not even when Malik stays in the training grounds until late in the evening working on her form with a spear. Lashing out at shadows and wishing Hamid would return. Being a Novice, something she had never minded before, is suddenly unbearable.

.

.

Malik is woken by nothing more than a sense of wrongness. The room is too still and she opens her eyes wide as she listens intently for the threat.

Kadar is asleep next to her. His growing limbs crowding her out of the bed they still share, but shall have to give up soon. His breathing is even and regular, untroubled by the wrongness.

She turns her head to the floor near the window and finds the source of her unease. Aban sleeps in the pile of drunken limbs he'd let himself fall into hours earlier. A faint snore rises up from the awkward angle of his head.

Crouched over him is Altair. His face blank and still in a way that Malik has never quite seen before. Washed a terrifying white by the pale light of the full moon and the brightness of his new robes.

Malik does not know this look and acts on instinct as she reaches down to the floor and throws her left boot at his head.

It smacks into his outstretched hand with a sound that doesn't wake Kadar or Aban. Malik scowls at him and crawls out of the bed. She's mostly dressed still, but has to fish her other boot out from under a small table where it was kicked. When she straightens up Altair is gone, and her left boot placed near Aban's snoring mouth.

She goes out the window only when she's good and ready. Climbing upward because this is Altair and the fool can never seem to get high enough. His new robes glow in the moon when Malik pulls herself up to the same level he is on. "And here I thought you convinced yourself you are too high and mighty to train with the likes of a mere Novice."

"He smells like a leper," Altair says, refusing to take the taunt that's been burning on Malik's tongue since the day before. "What is he doing in your room? He lives in the city."

Aban, Malik shakes her head at the drunk fool of a friend. "He's sleeping here _because_ he smells like a leper, and his father would throw him into the fountain if he went home like that. There's no need to contaminate the city water like that just because he's an idiot."

Malik flexes the fingers of her right hand and launches herself upward. Aiming for the sloped roof. She has a hand on the tiles when a blur of white flips over the edge next to her. Altair gives her a smug smirk as she pulls herself up and pretends she doesn't care that he beat her up to the top even with her lead.

"Are you?" Malik asks as she stands up straight and stretches upward. Palms to the sky until she can feel and hear her spine pop into alignment.

"Am I what?" Altair asks as he eyes one of the towers.

"Afraid of being beaten by a Novice?" Malik waits for the man to turn around before she lashes out with the dagger she unsheathed. Laughing as Altair scrambles and slides a little on the tiled roof trying to evade it.

Altair growls and comes up with his own blade out and they spend the morning trying their best to throw the other off the edge.

.

.

Aban gives Malik a very terrifyingly frank look the next day when she can't quite keep her eyes from straying to where Dima helps the rest of Aban's family with the stall. Her neck sweats under the bandage no one has asked her about yet, the flesh aching in a way that is pleasant.

Malik sneers at Aban over her meal and makes a point of plucking a single strand of thread that has been stubbornly clinging to his back all day. It's soft and silky like the clothing of the concubines he is certainly not allowed to even look at yet.

"Fine," Aban reluctantly concedes with a put upon air of grievance. "It was not like I wanted to know details anyway."

The face he makes at that is hilarious and true, and Malik tips her head back and laughs until she's near tears.

.

.

Malik is not Dima's only lover. The most frequent, yes, but not the only one. Malik had known from the beginning that the woman was too much Aban's blood sister to be content with a husband and a single lover. She is not surprised in the least to find Dima wrapped up in the basket weaver's arms one night. Hidden behind a building that shields them from all lines of sight except for from above.

Seeing the proof of what she knew with her own eyes takes some of the wind out of the infatuation Malik hasn't been able to stop from growing. Makes something resentful curl up in her chest that Malik logically knows has no place being there. Dima is a married woman, Malik has no claim on her at all. Would not even if she were not Masoud's wife.

It's for the best, Malik admits to herself later, after leaving the two alone and continuing to the market for the meal she wanted. Her time with Dima is starting to grow disruptive of her training. Malik's mind coming up with excuses to see the woman that she regrets a little more when she makes a mistake or when Kadar clings to her tighter because he's not seen her as much.

It is for the best then that Malik is reminded of how little of Dima is actually hers to claim. Before Malik allows her fascination for the woman spiral out of control. It smarts, but it is a cleansing kind of pain.

.

.

Altair veers away from the training ground in the morning and Malik follows with a barely suppressed yawn. Her mind exceptionally sluggish as they silently make their way down to the city. Leaping from building to building. The exertion burns through her, a pointed reminder that she has been slacking in certain areas of her training. The time spent with Dima taking its toll on her body.

Malik's curiosity is piqued as Altair continues away from any route she would have expected him to take. His eyes intent and focused in a way that only happens when he's looking to prove something. She wants to prod at him, push to see what he's planning, but the hour demands silence.

She kicks out at him when he crouches on a ledge for more than a second, scanning the still city with a gaze that turns eerie. Altair only glances at her, face blank, before leaping again. Going faster and forcing Malik to bite her lips as she works to keep up with him and stay silent. She needs more practice if this is a struggle. It's a miracle Altair is so focused on whatever it is he's hunting that he doesn't notice.

What he's hunting becomes apparent when a shadow flows out of a dark window below them. Malik freezes with Altair and stares intently at it. Taking her cue from the tense way Altair holds himself over the target.

She won't ask now, not with the strange tension radiating from the other man. His fists clenching in the way she's learned to read as him holding back from attacking. Barely.

The shadow darts away and Malik jumps before she can think about it. Altair a silent shadow next to and occasionally behind her, but never ahead. This target is meant for her then.

Malik bites back a growl of frustration because she still does not know what Altair's game is. She speeds up instead and moves to cut the unknown person off. Dropping down onto the streets just as Aban rounds the corner. Clothing askew and sticking to the shadows.

"Malik!" He hisses in surprise, jerking back before stopping himself. He smiles wryly at her and drops the skulking act immediately. "What brings you out here at this hour?"

"A morning run," Malik straightens from her crouch and blinks at her friend. Aban? Altair had led her on a chase around the city looking for him? Malik casts her mind back to the building she saw the other Novice come out of and smirks. "Really, Aban? The metal smith's house? Do you have a death wish? The last man to try for his daughter without permission nearly had his balls nailed to the front gates, and that was only for a simple kiss."

Aban chuckles as he tucks his hands into his belt. "Oh, no, not the daughter, that's old news and I'm afraid we didn't part on very good terms. Her brother on the other hand..." Aban trails off suggestively and it's enough to shock an honest smile out of her. His complete lack of shame will get him killed one day, Malik knows it, but she cannot exactly reprimand him for it.

"Even worse, your escapes need some work if you insist on being that stupid," Malik says instead.

"Ah, I'm not so bad," Aban protests immediately.

"You are," Altair says. Sudden and abrupt above them.

Aban startles even worse than when he'd found her. His head snapping back so he can _gape_ up at the man crouched above them. A shadow of a figure with his hood up. Unnaturally still and blending in too well with the building.

"Altair!" Aban snaps his mouth shut and shoots Malik a look. Frowning when she only looks blandly back at him. "You are both wrong. I am not so bad as long as I'm not compared to the two of you. There is no other Novice that can compete against _both_ of your tracking skills."

The compliment is usually enough to get Altair's arrogance going, but he only tilts his head almost inquisitively. Strange does not even begin to describe Malik's morning.

"Well," Aban whistles, low and little mocking as he moves around Malik. He waves negligently at them both. "I aim to get an hour of sleep. I will see you at lessons, Malik."

"What was that about?" Malik asks after she climbs back up onto the building and they move away from where Aban is now openly strolling back up to the citadel. Discretion seems to have been abandoned as Altair pays not heed to the tiles he cracks underfoot and the stones he kicks off the roof now.

"Nothing," Altair says after a long silence, and then -frustratingly- refuses to say anything more on the matter.

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

.

Malik never knew her own father, and she only has vague recollections of the man who sired Kadar. It is not something she thinks on overly much, but it is something Kadar is starting to worry over excessively.

She knows why and it makes her feel tired and far older than she is. Kadar's skin is lighter than any of the other children he runs with, barely but noticeable, and his eyes...

There is no question where Kadar's father came from when anyone sees his light colored eyes. It is something Malik had guarded against in the city of Jerusalem. Keeping the boy's head down when it was impossible to keep him away from the crowds. It is not something that she can guard against in Masyaf, but she had -perhaps naively- thought that it would not be a problem among the Order.

It isn't a problem among the Order, but Kadar does not spend all of his day confined to the citadel. The first time Kadar returns with a bloody nose, only Aban's presence keeps her from hunting down the brats responsible and doing something that just might have gotten her expelled from the Brotherhood.

"It's a child's fight," Aban grunts as she hits something soft and vulnerable with her elbow before being released. Kadar is sulking on the bed, glaring at nothing as he wipes dried blood from his face. "It's hardly worth the effort of teaching them a lesson I'm sure they've already learned. Am I right, Kadar, or are your knuckles scraped for some reason other than a fight you won?"

Kadar ducks his head for a brief moment, ears flushing red, before looking back up. There's a stubborn defiance in his eyes and face that makes her feel a helpless sort of pride even as a fresh drop of blood rolls down his face. "They won't do it again."

They do though, and Malik holds back her growing anger as Kadar comes back with bruises and a few split lips. Stubbornly refusing to tell her any names, and proudly telling her all about how they'll learn eventually as soon as he punches them enough times.

Aban laughs at her until he collapses into a wall to support himself. "Now you know how Hamid must have felt every time you threw yourself at anyone who insulted you! He is truly your brother, Malik, don't be so surprised that he follows your lead."

It's hard though when Kadar begins to ask about his father at night. Hesitant and almost afraid, face buried against her back as he refuses to look at her when speaking. Malik can only give him so much about the pale man who had never really spoken to her though. She gives those little details freely though and hopes it will eventually be enough to satisfy whatever it is her brother is looking for.

It does not though and Malik should not be as surprised as she is when he does find something that helps. Something outside of her.

Malik had never truly thought about it, but Altair shares the same mixed heritage as Kadar. His skin is far lighter, his eyes to, and there's something in his nose that is foreign as well. Malik had noticed it, but it had never truly mattered. Never factored into their training or one-upmanship. Partially because of Kadar but mostly because he was such an ass she didn't care to think beyond beating him.

Kadar, evidently, finds some sort of kinship with the insufferable man over it though.

"Kadar could do no better," Altair says with a smug smile that makes her bare her teeth at him. He's laughing as she drags him away from where he was teaching an obviously rapt Kadar how to fight better.

"Worse you mean," it is plain to her, from the light in Kadar's eyes, that he has somehow come to idolize the idiot twisting in her grip. Her arm stings under the pressure of his hand but she grits her teeth and holds on. Long enough to make a point before releasing him. "The last thing Kadar needs to learn before joining the Novice ranks is how to disregard all sense!"

"You'd have him duck his head and take the insults?" Altair scoffs, derision melting into his voice. "That doesn't sound like the Malik I know at all. Have you always been this much of a hypocrite?"

Malik grinds her teeth and is forced to accept that. To accept that she finds her brother trailing after Altair more and more often. The man dispensing lessons with a smug look like he's some sort of master indulging Kadar. It irritates her to no end when Altair soon become the only thing Kadar talks about. Excited as he babbles on about what he has learned.

It truly isn't the worst thing that could have happened, but the more Altair smiles over the whole matter the more she hates it.

.

.

Malik leaves for her trials under the watchful eye of Hamid.

"Mind your elders," Malik says to Kadar as her brother clings to her in the privacy of their room. He was all smiles and excitement the night before, but now that she's actually leaving his eyes are suspiciously wet and his light skinned face is flushing red. Malik clutches him close and lets herself breath in deep as the reality of it crashes over her as well.

Malik is confident that she will return. Successful. There is no doubt in her mind of that, but she will be away from Kadar for the first time in either of their lives. Malik forces herself to let go and step back. Reaching down -but not as far as she used to- to run her fingers through his hair. "And do not let Aban talk you into anything."

"Your trust is heartwarming," Aban says as he hooks a hand around Kadar's neck and pulls the boy close to him. Hand firm on Kadar's shoulder. "I will try my best to keep your brother alive and safe."

"You mean your mother will," Malik pulls back the worry she can't help feeling and pushes it away because it has no place beyond this room. Malik smirks at her brother and friend once before leaving. Neither will see her off at the gates. No one will.

The cool halls of the citadel give way to the bright skies of the city and Malik strides through the crowd. Winding through civilians bartering in the market and nodding to the few she recognizes before she finds herself at the open gates. Hamid waits for her with two horses, his hood drawn up to shade his eyes from the sun. "Are you prepared?"

"Yes," Malik says as she takes the reigns of a spotted brown horse. Hamid looks over her shoulder into the city and smiles. "Can we leave?"

Hamid swings up onto his own mount and grins at her as he sets off. "If your goodbyes are finished we may."

Malik doesn't look back as she swings up onto her horse and doesn't follow his gaze. She doesn't want to see Kadar trying and failing to sneak through the crowd. "They are."

.

.

Jerusalem is so unchanged that something in Malik's heart aches to walk through the crowds. She has to still her hands when she brushes by someone with an unguarded purse. The instinct to pickpocket strong on instinct despite the fact she doesn't need to anymore.

Hamid leads her through the streets and up to the roofs. Silently showing her the city from a different angle, pointing out the areas she needs to know before coming to rest on the roof to the Bureau of the city.

"Go," Hamid says as he stretches out his right knee. "Don't do anything, just walk the city and listen. I will see you here when the sun goes down."

Malik nods and leaves. Feeling the empty air below her as she jumps from building to building. The eyes of the city below her ignorant of her passing. She doesn't go immediately for the streets. Jumping and occasionally dropping to hang below the eaves when a guard wanders up. The sun is at its highest when Malik reaches one of the viewpoints Hamid had pointed out earlier. She climbs it easily, stretching the muscles that are still stiff from the long ride back to the city.

She swings up over the edge, gets a hand into the crack of the dome topping the tower, and turns to look out at the city. The people moving below, going from district to district, going about their lives like they always have. Malik stays there for a while.

.

.

"What is this?" Malik looks at the pile of clothing that is waiting for her next to a tray of food when she drops into the Bureau later.

"Your disguise," Hamid says as he sits with his throwing knives laid out before him. A cloth and whetstone ready next to them.

Malik unfolds the cloth and is dismayed when the first thing she picks up is a headscarf. They're women's clothes and Malik feels her lips pull back in a snarl as she turns to meet Hamid's level gaze. "No."

"Yes," Hamid says, voice firm and not willing to accept her refusal as he sits there. Hands relaxed in his lap but ready to take on any argument. "You are an Assassin, Malik. You have been taught to use a great many things to your advantage in Masyaf, and it's time for you to start using this as well."

Malik's lips stay curled in a snarl as her fingers knot into the fabric of clothing she has never once worn in her life. Rage and embarrassment burns through her at the thought of having to put down her weapons and the armor she has spent so long fighting to master. To _earn_.

"Malik, stop," Hamid's voice is cool and commanding. "Whatever it is you are thinking, stop thinking it. This is a _disguise_, a way to gain entrance to a building we would not otherwise be able to get into. Does a simple set of clothing have the power to rob you of all your training and convictions?"

_Afraid? I didn't take you for a coward, Malik._ The taunt is familiar and does what it always does when she hears it or remembers it.

"No," Malik grits out and forces herself to look at the clothing. It's loose, unbelievably so, and her anger eases enough for her to start _thinking_ again. She won't have to give up her weapons, though the armor will have to stay behind. She won't be able to hide her sword, but Malik's eyes cut to the throwing knives Hamid has laid out. The handles are facing her and not him. She reaches for one and Hamid does not stop her. Its weight is reassuring and Malik sits back on her heels, forces herself to turn to the tray, and keep her voice even as she asks, "What is my mission?"

.

.

Talal is a large man with a smile that does not quit and a tongue almost as silver as Aban's. Malik watches from the shadows of the hall leading into the kitchen as he rules over the table he and his men have been occupying all night. The Christian men he is entertaining laugh along with him, their bodies relaxed despite the tension held by the rest of the room from the moment they entered.

"Here," Malik turns and accepts the tray being held out to her by an older woman. One of the servants of the hall who had greeted Malik and Hamid with no surprise or questions. She has yet to offer her name, or ask for Malik's and she doubts it will happen.

The woman weaves through the room with her own tray and Malik follows closely behind. Eyes follow the tray she's holding, and as long as she keeps her eyes down that is all. Malik is a servant in this establishment. One that has never been seen before, but her perceived status makes that a moot point. No one pays her any attention at all as she lays out the dishes among the gathered men. Cups spill and hands grab the plates from her hands, but no eyes stick to her as she steps back to join the woman against the wall to wait for further orders.

The foreign men are arrogant and filthy looking. Their lips turning up in sneers as much as in laughter as they speak to each other in their own language. Talal's smile does not slip even when Malik is fairly sure one of them is saying something insulting. She's fairly sure, after the hours of watching, that the curious merchant can understand what they're saying. His lips twitch in a telling way when they speak.

Malik stands against the wall, shifting occasionally when the older woman determines she's been still too long. She watches and listens. Biting back the impatience she feels as the convoluted conversation —banal pleasantries, jokes, and more lewd descriptions of women than might even make her fellow Novices speechless— continues and she fails to hear any indication of a name from the foreigners. No way of telling which one of them is this Peter she is looking for.

She cautions herself to patience and waits and listens as the men laugh the night away.

.

.

"Are you certain?" Hamid asks from the table where it looks like he and the Rafiq have been playing games as they wait for her return. A false impression, because Malik had spotted Hamid on the roofs when she walked away from the old woman who still did not ask any questions.

"I am," Malik says, firm and without a trace of doubt. The face of the man matching the name she was given is burned in her mind, the knowledge of where he sleeps and where he will be still weighs in the air.

"Hm," the Rafiq studies her with dark eyes before he gets up and reaches over a pile of books. He turns to her with a single, white feather between his fingers. "You have my permission to take his life. Rest, pray, do what you need to do to prepare yourself for this mission."

Malik accepts the feather with a bowed head. The gravity of the act she is about to commit as well as what it means to her in the Brotherhood makes the feather heavier than is actually is. "Safety and peace be upon you."

"And you as well," Hamid says as Malik retreats to the courtyard where her armor and clothing is. The older men do not follow and Malik knows that this time Hamid will remain in the Bureau. She has done the work on finding her target without help, the actual chase and killing of the target is up to her alone. Her success or failure will be evident very quickly no matter where Hamid is in the city.

Malik drops the too thin clothing that had taken her almost an hour of observation on the streets to put on right. Her armor and robes are a relief. She'd felt exposed and vulnerable the entire time she was without them. Even with the added throwing knives. Malik adjusts the knives that she will not be giving back unless Hamid asks outright for them.

She sits in the cool interior of the building as the sun continues to fade and the streets go quiet. She does not pray. Religion is something she studies, but believing is not something that is in her. A tight ball of tension sits low in her stomach and Malik focuses on it instead. Observing it until she's sure it isn't something that will get in the way.

When she's confident in herself she climbs up out of the Bureau and goes hunting.

.

.

Malik closes the staring eyes of the man who used to be Peter of Something. What had never come up in her observing. The alley is quiet now, the whore Malik had not been quick enough to save from the Crusader's cruelty dead before Malik even had the chance to send her killer along with her. Malik stoops to close her eyes as well, and can't help noting her youth. Can't help wondering if Malik once knew the young woman.

The feather absorbs her target's blood easily, and Malik lets the excess drip off before tucking it away and taking to the roof tops again. Running quick but silent over the city to get as far as she can before one of the roving night patrols finds the bodies in the alley.

She passes a roof garden and remembers her first kill. Remembers the confusion she had felt at the lack of feeling at taking a man's life. The lack is still there, and Malik is not upset by it. Not even by the lack of anger for what the man did before she could stop him. He is dead after all, and all his crimes are now paid for in his blood and flesh blood.

Hamid sits on the roof waiting for her. The faint glow of a pipe coming from his hand. Malik sits next to him, letting her legs dangle in through the opening as she looks out over the still quiet city. She remembers the words Hamid told her long ago before he dragged her away from Jerusalem and the streets. Remembers the death rattle of the guard she first killed, and the way Peter's eyes had bulged as she ran him through.

Guilt still fails to fill her though she thinks it should at least a little.

"You were right," Malik says eventually, "It isn't right."

"No," Hamid agrees, easily following her thoughts. He reaches out and runs a hand through her hair. Proud and paternal. "That is why I brought you with me. You have seen tonight what happens to someone who is not taught to channel that, to properly control themselves."

"They become rabid animals," Malik says as she remembers the sick grin on Peter's face as the whore's blood ran over his fingers. The delight in his eyes as the woman died.

"Just as likely to bite friend and foe," Hamid gently pushes her. "Your mission isn't over yet, little one. Go report your success."

Malik lets herself fall into the Bureau.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

.

"For most Novices, the trials are about their first kill," Hamid says as they make their way back to Masyaf. The road stretches on before them, dusty and empty of any presence save their own for the moment. "Finding the information, and tracking their mark on their own is a simple matter really. It's the killing that is always the hardest part. Even with all the training and all the reasoning in the world on their side, there are still those who cannot complete the task. Those who cannot bring themselves to stain their hands with blood."

Malik purses her lips and tries to see the point Hamid is making, because she knows he is trying to teach her something here. She listens closely because she doesn't understand it. Doesn't understand how a Novice could not complete their mission.

"They are not lesser for it," Hamid explains patiently as he walks his horse around a pile of rocks. "It makes them innocent, their inability to harm another human like that. It's a rare quality in this world Malik, and it's one we must protect at all costs."

"Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent," Malik dutifully recites. The tenets ingrained in her as much as anything else.

"Yes," Hamid turns to in his seat to look at her. To gauge her face. "Tell me though, Malik, what do you think you would feel if you were to kill an innocent as you did Peter?"

Malik grimaces, her mind flashing first to the Creed and the consequences of breaking it so badly. The thought of being caught and stripped of everything makes her want to recoil from the question, but it's Hamid asking her and she makes herself think about it. "Nothing," Malik grudgingly admits to Hamid. "I would feel nothing."

"There are people in this world who would feel the same, or would feel only pleasure at it. They are cruel people who feel nothing for anyone," Hamid turns back to the road and they travel a while in silence as he lets her think on that. Remember the blind panic she felt so long ago when the first scream rose at the sight of her hand covered in blood. The panic that had come only because something was wrong and Malik could not truly understand it. "It is rare to find one with this ability to feel nothing, and yet still be able to interact with others."

"I," Malik hasn't thought long or often about the things Hamid is bringing up. Not since he brought her to become and Assassin. "But I don't! I _do_ feel things for others!" The protest is loud over the road, but panic is starting to swirl a little in her. The panic, she is beginning to think, that should have been there as she contemplated the best way to kill her target.

"Hush, now, little one," Hamid spurs his horse closer and reaches for her arm. His grip solid and soothing as he smiles. The same smile he'd given her on that roof so long ago it feels, when he told her what she felt wasn't right. "I know, all who know you know. There is no doubt in anyone's mind that you feel things for people. Love, compassion, anger, and even hate. You feel them all so very strongly, Malik, and I'm trying to tell you how very exceedingly rare that is."

Hamid's hand slips away and their horse drift apart before he continues. "The first time I killed a man I was older than you, and had far more time to train and prepare myself. Faced with a living man I hesitated though. Only when he tried to kill me was I able to complete my mission. The action wore on me heavily, Malik, and it still does to this day. All of the men I've killed weigh on me in a way that I don't think you will ever quite understand."

"You said it was wrong," Malik says as she tries to imagine it. Imagine being troubled by Peter or the guard whose name she never knew. Death is not something to be casually dealt out, she feels that, but she feels no regret or trouble over the two she has already caused.

"I did not! I said it wasn't right," Hamid corrects her sternly. "Wrong would be if you found pleasure in it, in the act of killing and not just in the fact of a mission well done. Wrong is going out of your way to kill. Wrong is turning your blades onto the flesh of the innocent. Not feeling regret for the lives you rightfully take is a _boon_, and one you must watch carefully to ensure you do not slip. Follow the Creed so that you do not end up as those others do."

"Is that why you brought me to the Master?" Malik asks.

"One of the reasons, yes," Hamid smiles fondly at her. "Mostly I brought you to the Order because I'd grown inordinately fond of the frowning street child who went out of her way to find information on targets I did not know the names of until I arrived in Jerusalem."

.

.

"Do you have a family?" Kadar had asked once when they were first leaving Jerusalem. Not even a day out of the city, and hours after the novelty of travel had worn off.

Hamid had stared off into the distance with a look of such bitterness that he did not even need to answer for Malik to know what he would say. "Once, I did, I do not anymore."

Malik never asked afterwards and she shushed Kadar's questions until the boy grew enough to learn not to ask them on his own.

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"But why can't I come?" Kadar asks again. Disappointed and upset all at the same time.

"You have a few months yet before you become a Novice, Kadar," Malik says as she pulls the stiff robes tight around her body. It will take a while to break them of their newness, but Malik enjoys it for the moment. Enjoys the obvious sign of her advancement.

She ruffles his hair and he lets her only because she's been away. He hates the gesture otherwise.

"You can wait for me by the front gates," she says and Kadar grudgingly accepts the compromise.

The ceremony is bright and vivid in a way it never was before. Being the focus of all the eyes of the Brotherhood as she's acknowledged, her work accepted, makes all the difference. The Creed flows from her lips under the Master's watchful eyes and something fierce burns bright in her chest as she turns to the plank. The weight of eyes against her back pushing her on despite the fact she hasn't needed any help performing a Leap of Faith.

She doesn't look before jumping but she knows already where she's going, and the hood of her pristine robe hides her smile as she lands exactly where she needs to land. Safely hidden in the hay she allows herself to smile as wide as she wants to.

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"It suits you, Malika," Dima says as she pushes Malik up against a wall. A fence only partially obscuring them from sight of anyone who might walk down this particular street, and doing nothing to stop any eyes from above seeing them.

Malik doesn't protest though when Dima presses in close. Her teeth worrying Malik's lower lip and her hands already becoming familiar with the new ties. "Your eyes shine against the white. They never did that with the gray."

Malik wants to say something that will make Dima smile, but the woman's hands find their mark and Malik focuses instead on keeping quiet. Her own teeth sinking into her lips as Dima grins and slowly sinks down to her knees, making staying silent that much harder.

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Aban had left for his trials, the ass keeping that little fact to himself until well after Malik was gone. She'll make him pay for it when he returns.

She wakes early on the first day out of habit though she won't have to deal with lessons taking up most of her day anymore. Malik ties her robes closed as tight as she needs to make them fit -a stop to the tailor or weaver is in order- and wonders if it would be worth the argument she knows Altair will level against moving their sparring to later in the day to get an extra bit of sleep.

Kadar rolls onto his back, arms and legs spread so wide they hang off the bed. Malik smiles and shakes her head, adds getting another bed to her list of chores for when the market opens. It's past time they stopped sharing. Before she has to wake up to an awkward situation in the middle of the night.

Altair is in the hall, leaning against the wall directly opposite of the door. Arms crossed over his chest, smirk in place, and giving off an air of patient waiting that Malik knows is a filthy lie. Altair is _never_ patient.

"I got the rank first," Altair starts when they both turn to the training arena. Their boots tapping nearly silently on the stone, the sound only allowed because they are safe here and it's polite to give warning of their approach.

"So?" Malik brushes the white sleeves of her robe free of dust that is not there. "We are the same rank now."

"It's unfair," Altair shrugs carelessly, lips turning down as if he's disappointed. "I already have the advantage in skill, and now time. You'll have to work hard if you want to keep up with me when I rise in rank."

"Oh?" Malik's lips thin and she alters the course of her hand. Away from the practice swords she wanted, and going for the heavy sticks that can be used as staffs or spears depending on grip. Altair's grin is sharp when she throws one at him, and Malik knows there will be no slow warm up this morning. He's spoiling for a fight, and Malik is inclined to give it to him. "I'll grant you the time lead, but you must've hit your head falling off a wall if you think you are the better of me in any other area. Are you so forgetful that a few days away has turned you incredibly stupid?"

"Maybe I need another hit on the head to remember," Altair holds his staff deceptively loose at his side as Malik begins to circle him. Looking for an opening she know won't present itself until he tires of trading words with her. "Because I distinctly remember the last time we used _sticks_," Altair is a sudden blur, but Malik is spinning already. Her own staff out and deflecting a blow with a sharp crack. Altair turns to face her. Staff up and ready to be snapped out in any direction. His grin is bright and a little on the manic side, and Malik wonders if anyone tried sparring with him while she was gone. "You ate more dirt than bread for breakfast."

A truth, but Malik only snorts and lashes out. One hand on the very end of the staff to give her a long reach without bringing her too close. Altair ducks and Malik jumps inside his guard, scraping the end of the staff painfully along the side of his knee and making him stifle a curse. "Then it's my turn to repay the favor."

Malik does end up the victor in the match, though she trips Altair's smug ass far less than she hoped to.

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"I laid with a woman last night," Altair says as he drops down onto the roof Malik is occupying.

"Good for you," Malik says with complete apathy as she peels thin slices off of an apple. She's over hearing about the sexual exploits of others. Aban at least has the decency to keep his conquests to himself. "Should I offer the poor woman my condolences?" Malik looks up to smirk at Altair and blinks in surprise. There's no trace of the smugness that she expected to see from his comment. Altair instead looks vaguely troubled and more than vaguely disgusted. "Or do _you_ need them instead?"

Altair glares at her and crouches down beside her. Balancing on the balls of his feet and giving the impression that he's only going to rest a little while before running off. "It was horrible. What is the point to it?"

Altair's tone is frustrated and confused, and Malik finds herself emphasizing with it despite herself. Remembering the way she tried to understand the boasts of the Novices, the confusion of the first time, and the absolute revelation that came too late for that first encounter.

"Hm," Malik hums patiently, feeling oddly benevolent in this moment as she decides to teach Altair something. "Yes, it is horrible when you don't know what you're doing," Altair's head snaps around fast and she can hear him draw in a hissing breath to growl back at her, his pride smarting from the implication he doesn't know something. She continues over him, "It was very unenjoyable for me the first time too. Uncomfortable, messy," Malik grimaces at the memory of the merchant's son grunting and sweating over her. "I thought I'd have been better off spending my time scaling the cliffs and then throwing myself off them onto the rocks below."

Altair is frowning now, but silent. Eyes locked on her intently as he waits for her to say more. "I think it's easier for men to find their pleasure than women," Malik shrugs the hard learned lesson off and tries to find a way to relate her experiences to Altair's becuase he will not find it in the words of their peers. "It is not something that we are born knowing to do, despite what others say. So the first times will always be bad until you learn the secrets of it I suppose."

Dima's expert hands flash through her mind, Malik's only way of knowing that her experience with the merchant was a fluke instead of the way it was supposed to be.

"It takes practice," Malik sums up even though Altair, for once, doesn't look to be growing impatient with her musings. His usual demands for her to reach a point absent. "Like anything worth doing."

"Practice," Altair repeats in a tone of voice that's both thoughtful and determined. His eyes are still intent as he slowly turns back to look out over the city.

Malik slices another sliver of apple off and eats it. Wondering if she should warn the people of the city to lock their daughters up. Though, knowing those women, it'd be unlikely to help if they heard Altair is looking for a bed partner. Too many bold young women had tried prying secrets of the 'mysterious' Altair out of her in bids to get his attention. Attempts that had died down after one asked how he got his distinctive scar.

Theories and rumors had abounded before she could answer. Each more outlandish and ridiculously fanciful than the last. The women had been absolutely underwhelmed when Malik informed them the scar was from her boot. The lack of a dashing reason killed all the rest of their burning curiosity.

Though it just might pick up again.

Malik shakes her head and peels off a messy strip of pulp from her blade and sucks it off her hands. Mind already wandering away from Altair's future exploits and calculating how long she has to wait for Masoud to leave Dima for the day.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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Malik finds Aban in the infirmary. His face scratched up and left hand a mess of bandages. She laughs in his face when he tells her he had to flee after completing his mission, and that the rooftop garden he'd thought to use to hide in was actually a pigeon coop.

"You'd best come up with a better story than that," Malik says with a grin as he's released. Free to change out of his travel stained and blood spotted robe. "If our Brothers don't laugh you out of the city, your lovers surely will."

Aban smiles but it's a wan thing, and he stops when they're alone. No Novice or anyone around them. He looks at her, eyes staring at her white robes, and his face is troubled. "Malik, how-" Aban's mouth works around words he wants to say, but can't get out going by the frustration on his face. It's the first time she's ever seen her friend speechless and it brings Hamid's words back to her.

She knows then what he wants to ask, and feels regret that she can't properly answer him. There's a hint of darkness under his eyes, and he looks more tired than the time away and travel would account for.

"Hold fast to the Creed," Malik reaches out and clasps Aban's shoulder. Squeezing hard and giving him the words Hamid gave her. The reason might be different, but Malik hopes they hold the same kind of truth as Aban nods. Still wordless as he leaves to rest before his own initiation ceremony.

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Kadar _hates_ being a Novice.

Malik laughs for weeks on end, every morning she pulls the boy from his new bed by his feet. Dumping him onto the hard ground and throwing his gray robes at him. "Get used to it, Novice, it only gets worse from here."

She watches from up high as her little brother is run through the same drills and lessons she was. Watches him fail at them before stubbornly picking himself up. Throwing himself at everything until he conquers it. It thrills her to seem him do it even as a small worry starts to grow in her stomach. The thought of what will happen when Kadar is no longer a boy and is ready for his trials lurking in the back of her mind.

Malik pushes it aside and instead focuses on the way her brother collapses on his bed at the end of the day. Fully clothed and not caring in the least at the discomfort of it as he grumbles about muscles he never knew existed hurting.

"It doesn't get easier," Malik says with a smile even though she's mostly sure her brother can't hear her.

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Convincing Altair to give up their early morning practices took less effort than Malik anticipated. The man probably missed his sleep as much as she did, though their new time has some drawbacks that leave her reconsidering it.

They take to the training arena in the middle of the day when the Novices are safely in the library, and most people are sensibly inside where it's cooler. The sun rises high and is merciless against her back.

Altair is stripped down as far as he can get away with, and Malik's care for decency had died a quick death the first day. The bindings of her breast are good enough cover though when it's only the two of them in the arena. Especially since it had made Altair trip over his feet in a way he hasn't in a long while the first few times she'd stripped down.

He's gotten used to it unfortunately. Malik's laughter and barbs pricking his pride enough that he obviously forced himself to ignore it. To focus instead entirely on their matches.

Malik shakes her head hard, trying to flick sweat off her face without taking her eyes off of Altair or having to use one of her hands. She's nearly soaked through with it, and Altair is no better. Worse of actually going by his grimace. Malik smirks and starts to side step to the right. "Does it smart?"

Altair grimaces and matches her. Keeping his guard up even as his shoulder dips in preparation of an attack. Malik can see a bit of the vivid red lines from the shift. They start near the top of his shoulders and go down nearly to the small of his back. Fresh in a way that the salt of his sweat must be stinging the scratches.

"Did you bed a woman or a cat?" Malik can't stop herself. The scratches are so painfully obvious and Altair's irritation over them is equally blatant. Malik darts the opposite way she was stepping, Altair's sword skitters off hers as she twists behind him for the first time and her hiss is real sympathy. "I don't know who you slept with, Altair, but if you go back to her bed I wholly recommend you keep your armor on."

Up close the scratches are deeper than she guessed. Raw and scabbed in some places with a few broken open and oozing a little from their spar. Malik reaches out with one hand and presses against a spot that's welling up blood, surprised when Altair drops his stance and only sighs. Letting her examine his back carefully as the spar ends.

"Was she trying to kill you?" Malik asks as she takes in the entirety of Altair's back. Pressing lightly against the skin where it's worse. Altair's skin is flushed and hot, and Malik's having a hard time determining if that's the work of their training in the sun or the first sign of an infection. "Altair, I think you should have these treated."

"I'm fine!" Altair barks out and steps forward to get away from her prodding fingers.

Malik reaches out fast to grab his shoulder before he can get far. "Don't be an idiot, these scratches are _deep_. If you're too ashamed to go to the infirmary at least let me clean them so infection doesn't set in."

The scratches look no better in the dimmer light and cooler air of Altair's room. A smaller room than the one she shares with Kadar, though it takes her a second to think that because there's hardly anything in it. The scratches ooze clear fluid when she presses on them as she cleans them. Altair says nothing, makes no sound as she wipes the salt away. He only hisses slightly when she starts to rub a salve into his back.

Malik works quickly, giving up some gentleness to get it done faster. They're shallow enough for the most part that Malik decides bandages can be forgone. Altair will simply have to live with them sticking to his clothing a little if -_when_- he breaks them open again. "Tell me she was at least good enough to make up for this."

"She was," Altair says after a pause that Malik thought he'd fill with an insult. His voice is firm and confident, but the look on his face when she moves around is not the kind she'd expect to see on anyone who claims to have had good sex recently. Altair looks up at her and his usual smirk comes back into play. "Why are you so interested, Malik?"

"Because it looks painful, and I can't imagine that being pleasurable at all," Malik replies bluntly as she turns to the door. They're done for the day, and hunger is starting to call her to the market. "If that's the kind of thing that gets you going though, then by all means continue. Just make sure you disinfect the claws next time before taking your armor off."

Altair's frowning when she closes the door on him, and Malik sighs as she walks away. Altair talks even less than Aban about the women he beds, but Malik still seems to find herself in the unenviable position of knowing more than she wants to about it anyway.

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"Why does that surprise you?" Aban asks as they sit in the shade of his family stall. Watching it while more bread is brought out of the stoves by an almost veritable army of people. The market is still mostly empty due to heat and Malik picks at her loaf with disinterest. "You _are_ the one person he's closest to. Most who don't hear you two talk even consider you to be the best of friends."

"Are they _insane_?"

"No, merely misinformed, or," Aban shakes his head and doesn't finish his sentence. He only rolls his eyes when she flicks a few rocks his way. "Please, can we talk about something else? I talk about Altair a little too much these days and I'm tired of it."

Malik waves him on graciously with a snort. The women of the city apparently having found a new and better source of information on Altair. She's pleased at the thought of not being accosted so often though and leans back further in the stall. Listening idly to Aban as the sun moves slowly over the city.

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Acre is less one unpleasant slaver, and Malik is looking forward to returning home. Her monthly bleeding has started at the worst time, and she wants nothing more than to spend it at home. On her bed with Kadar who will bring her fresh fruit from the market and not ask her any annoying questions at all. Not like Altair has been doing the entire mission, a tactic that is sadly effective in getting a rise out of her.

They are a day's ride out of Masyaf and getting ready to set off again after camping out off the road in a small nook of the stone cliffs they've been following. It's enclosed and so far only visited by the Brotherhood. A trickle of water streams down from one cracked wall and bisects the area before disappearing underground.

Malik crouches near to where the water goes under and washes her blood stained rags before they set out for their last ride. Thankful she'll soon be out of Altair's annoying presence as the blood eddies away in a swirl. She'll tie the rags to her saddle and they'll be dry again by the time she needs them. The flow of her blood entering its heaviest stage now before it slowly stops.

"Aren't you done yet?" Altair's voice cuts through her thoughts, peaceful as they can be when contemplating her own blood. He's by the entrance to the imperfect cave. Impatient after having broken down his own portion of their camp. He stares down at the rags in her hands and frowns sharply mouth opening before closing with a resentful purse of lips that look ridiculous.

"I've been ready for an hour, you fool," Malik snaps but wrings out the rags and stands to leave anyway. They're not fully cleaned but they'll do. Altair does not flinch back from her or the rags the way some of the others she has worked with do. It's something that she has to, grudgingly, admire him for. "Your lazy ass is the one holding us up."

Too often, Malik has had to deal with the absurdly squeamish ways men react when she bleeds. For an Order that deals so closely with death it's ridiculous how fearful they can be about something that is a simple fact of life for all women.

Malik ties the rags to her saddle and swings up onto the horse. She grimaces as the move emphasizes the discomfort in her lower back that's constant on these days. She pushes a hand over her abdomen. A futile gesture to ease the cramps that she can't stop from making. She's _really_ looking forward to her bed.

Her horse nearly throws her when Altair appears in front of her, hand yanking the horse to a stop and his curiously golden eyes flashing. Flint and angry as he bares his teeth up at her in a very animal gesture. Malik gives it right back as she squeezes her legs down on the flank of her now unsettled mount. "Altair! What is the meaning of this?"

"You did not say you were wounded!" Altair hisses and refuses to let go of the horse even when she kicks out at him. He blocks her boot and wraps his hand around her ankle before she can try again. Keeping her immobile unless she really does want to risk being bucked off. "You're a fool to risk riding with a gut wound!"

"What?" Malik gapes down at the man who has lost his fool mind and tries to parse his words together. His eyes are still and fixed on the hand she has on her abdomen and Malik wants to laugh suddenly. "Altair, you idiot! I'm not wounded, it's only cramps. They'll cease when I stop bleeding."

"You bleed but you're not wounded?" Altair looks up at her as if she has gone mad, his voice scornful. "If you're trying to prove yourself by hiding an injury you're not nearly as intelligent as you like to say you are."

Malik has the sudden feeling that they're having two very different conversations. It doesn't seem possible though, she scowls down at the man. "You _fool_, it's only my monthly bleeding!"

"What?" Altair is confused and growing suspicious. A state that he does not like, and anger is quick to flare up even hotter in him. "Stop speaking in riddles! I don't care about your pride, woman, are you injured or not?"

Altair has no idea what she is talking about at all. The thought is sudden and makes her gape down at the man she had just grudgingly respected for being so at ease with her bleeding. It makes sense though, why he would be so at ease with it if he knew nothing of the matter. Altair Ibn-La'Ahad, completely ignorant of one of the most sordid —from her eavesdropping of the other novices— cycles of women.

Malik cannot help it. She tilts her head back and _laughs_. Long and hard in a way that doesn't agree with her cramping, but feels so good she does not care at all about it.

The look of absolute fury on Altair's usually smug face is exquisite. His scarred lips thin and Malik can almost hear his teeth grinding when she eventually manages to say, "You truly know nothing about women!"

"Explain yourself," Altair grits out as he finally lets go of her horse. The animal shies away from him with a fierce shake of its head. "Now, Malik."

Any other time Malik would take issue with the demand and the tone. She would register that issue with her fists or the flat of her sword until the man was beaten and spitting up dirt.

Now, Malik smiles down at him, vicious enough that he actually takes a step back before he can stop himself. Wariness entering those piercing eyes. "Get on your horse, novice," Altair bristles at the name and Malik dares him to protest with a raised eyebrow. "Get on your horse and I'll teach you a few things about women you won't hear from boys too busy bragging about what they're too afraid to even look at."

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	9. Chapter 9

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **I assure everyone, despite all appearances of fast updating, I am a much slower writer than this. Also, more Malik/OMC here.

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* * *

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"Seven days?" Altair eventually asks and Malik bites her lip hard to keep from laughing again. She's laughed too much today already. Anymore and she's likely to hurt something permanently.

It's hard though to keep it back. Altair has the same disgusted look she's grown so used to seeing, but it's tempered by reluctant respect. Altair is impressed and he does not like it in the least.

"Seven days," Malik confirms when she's gained control of her lips. The steady pace of the horse helping a little with the way her insides contort.

Altair's lips go thin again and Malik thinks that might be it for this conversation for a long while until the man opens his mouth again. "I didn't think anything could bleed that long and still live."

"Well I do," Malik says with a smirk as she kicks her horse faster. They're in familiar territory now and so close she can almost taste the fruit Kadar will pick for her. "Every month since I became a woman."

Gold eyes cut to her with a hard look that she feels as much as she sees. Again, she thinks that's the end of the conversation, and again is proven wrong when Altair spurs his mount even faster. Going from a trot to a slow canter as he turns to get the last word in. "You've always been stubborn like that."

Malik can't help the bark of laugh even as it makes her wince before she kicks into a gallop and races the idiot all the way back to Masyaf.

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Hamid is a sorry sight to behold.

"It's only been a week," Kadar mutters to her. Exasperated by having to deal with him and his lessons at the same time. "And it's only a broken bone, it could have been worse."

Malik reaches over and pinches the soft skin under his arm until he yelps and tries to strike out at her. Malik blocks the sloppy blows and gives him a stern look, "It is worse, Kadar. Don't trivialize his injury like that."

Kadar has the grace to look chastised, and Malik watches as that shame grows as the days go by. The two of them tending to the grumbling man until he's declared fit enough to hobble around on a crutch. The days turn to weeks and the weeks to months. The bone heals slowly, but it leaves Hamid with a nasty limp.

"I am old," Hamid admits to them one night as they eat in his quarters. His voice weary but a smile still lurking in his eyes. "It was bound to happen sometime. Most Assassins are not as lucky as me. They do not get the option of choosing how to end their life."

Kadar is quiet and doesn't look up from his meal until Hamid bounces a grape off of his lowered head. "I will continue to serve the Brotherhood, it will just be in a different capacity. There is still plenty of life left in my tired body yet. I will not let it simply waste away."

Hamid smiles as he says it, but Malik and Kadar find the sight of him in the dark robes of a Rafiq almost disturbing.

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"My mother thinks we should marry," Aban says when they're far enough out of sight of Masyaf that there is no one to see Malik kick out at him. "My _mother_ Malik! Not me!"

Malik urges her horse closer and kicks him again. "And why would she have that ridiculous idea if you did not do something to encourage it?"

"Dima, I think," Aban says and moves his horse further away from her. He shrugs at her sharp look. "Do not ask me why. My sister has been talking to her about how nice it would be to have you in the family."

Malik grimaces at the thought. Both of being married -to Aban no less- and of Dima subtly trying to influence this marriage. It's something that has been becoming more and more of an issue. With each rank Malik obtains her missions grow longer and more frequent. She spends less time in Masyaf and Dima has not been overly pleased by it. A grievance she has taken to sharing with more and more anger. The last had happened at the family stall, and only the lateness of the day had saved them from being overheard.

A blessing given the words she had felt needed to be spat out at Malik. Words that would have gotten Dima flogged as an adulteress at the very least.

"Your sister is overly attached," Malik mutters, her ears still burning from the accusations Dima had thrown her way. Of Malik looking to lay with every man in the Order. The hypocrisy of Dima accusing her of _infidelity_ would have made Malik laugh if she were not still upset by it. "She expects what she is not willing to give herself."

"I knew it would not end well," Aban shakes his head and runs a hand under his hood and over the beard he's been growing. "If you'd come to me about it before hand I would have told you that as well. Dima has always shared my tastes for both men and women, but she lacks the ability to take her pleasure from her trysts without becoming overly involved."

"And what would you have done if I'd come to you and asked to lay with your sister?" Malik asks out of honest curiosity.

"Wished you luck and made my warning very clear," Aban responds immediately. At Malik's raised eyebrow he laughs. "Malik, you are my friend, my Brother, and as dear to me as any of my blood sisters. You know I would object to very little from you."

Malik sigh and shakes her head, because that also might be a factor in the whole marriage idea.

"Let's just concentrate on the mission," Aban suggests as he rides ahead. "My mother can think and pester all she wants, but I will always say no. I merely wanted to warn you in case she tries to corner you alone when we return."

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"Have you ever slept with a man?" Aban asks, curiosity thick in his voice as the alarms die down. They're stretched out on cushions in the Bureau, the Rafiq long asleep as the night creeps in.

"I have," Malik says because Aban will not let up on it if he's genuinely interested. "It was not enjoyable in the least."

"Not enjoyable because you did not like it, or because he didn't know what to do?"

Aban would ask that. Malik huffs and opens her eyes. Taking in the darkness of the ceiling as she thinks about it, even though she already knows her answer. "I doubt very much he had the slightest idea what he was doing."

"But you do, now at least," Aban sits up and he's grinning. A familiar grin that makes Malik leery. "Do you want to try again? With someone who knows how to touch a woman."

Malik turns her head to fix him with a narrow look.

"Not me!" Aban looks a little horrified at the thought. "No, I only meant that I know someone here who has a brother that would suit you I think. For a night at least. He's very capable and takes his pleasure from what he draws from his lovers."

Malik wants to turn Aban down. The mission is complete, and they have a long journey back ahead of them in the morning. They should both be sleeping, but Aban has that grin he gets when he wanders out at night. Malik knows he'll go regardless, and, to be entirely truthful, Malik is curious now.

The arguments with Dima have grown so often that Malik has been taking her pleasure with her own hands. Quickly because the rooms she shares with Kadar offer little privacy except for when he's away. It has been a while since Malik was last touched by another person, and the idea of possibly gaining that same pleasure Dima brings out in her from a man is intriguing.

"I often talk to him, and have told him about my sister," Aban senses her weakening and presses. "We have been put to work by our father to guard caravans," Aban's fingers tap the sword Malik had laid out next to her. "He seems very receptive to meeting with you already, Malik."

She purses her lips together and thinks hard about what a bad idea this is. "Fine, this had better be worth it though."

.

.

Malik is unimpressed when Aban leads her to a richly appointed home. Taking in through a window into a room where a young man waits. From the way the strangers face lights up before going guarded Malik knows this is one of her friend's many lovers.

"Where is Bashir?" Aban asks before the man can say anything. "I have brought my sister with me and he must meet her. Asra," Aban addresses her with the fake name carelessly as if it were really hers, "this is Diya, he and Bashir are twins."

Diya is a handsome man. Tall and broad, but not soft looking at all like she expects from someone born into this much money. His face is pleading enough even with the suspicion that Malik doesn't think will go away until she's out of the room. "In his rooms, Fateen. You sent no word you were here with your," Diya pauses to show how skeptical he is and Malik smirks because it's clear Aban has his work cut out for him tonight, "_sister_."

Aban's laugh is a little strained as he plants one hand in Malik's back and pushes her to a door. His eyes don't leave Diya who is making a show of ignoring him. "Forgive me, Asra, but Bashir is to the left. I'm sure you can find him on your own."

Aban is talking even before the door shuts behind her. His tone cajoling as she laughs under her breath. The hall she's in is dark except for two lines of light. One from under the door she's in front of and the other from a room further down and to the left. She passes three dark doors before reaching it, cocking her head to listen. She hears a rustling but so faint she can't identify it.

Malik's knuckles brush the door but she doesn't knock. Aban is always too forward and in this matter she's better off copying him for the moment. The door opens silently and she finds Bashir leaning over a low table his back to her. He is Diya's mirror image with thick fingers tapping thoughtfully against a shatranj piece.

Her stomach tightens in anticipation as she thinks about what those broad hands will feel like if they're even half as skilled as Aban has told her. She's not entirely convinced yet though.

Bashir startles when Malik slides onto the cushions opposite him. His dark eyes fixing on her robes before sweeping up to her face. He's quick to smile over his surprise, "I was beginning to think Fateen was only telling me stories."

"My brother is prone to them," Malik agrees as she takes in the game Bashir has set up. It's a losing game and not in his favor in the slightest. "I hope he hasn't been too fanciful in his tales of me."

"No," Bashir's eyes are cautious as he assesses her as thoroughly as she assessed him before sitting down. Interest sparks in his look and it warms his smile into something that's charming. "Not in the slightest. Do you play Asra?"

Bashir waves a hand over the table at the game, and Malik could say yes. Could join him for a game because she learned how to play from the scholars, Hamid, and the dozen or so Rafiqs In the library between lessons. She doesn't feel up to drawing things out with a game though. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Just as well," Bashir sets down the piece he's been holding and sits up straight. Eyes even more keen now than they were before. "My teacher set up this learning scenario and would be upset if I played another game before solving this one."

It's a losing game. No matter what move he makes Malik can see how it will not stop him from losing. It's drawn out just enough to make one think they have a chance though. Enough rope to hang, Hamid had been fond of saying after Malik caught onto that little trick and learned to start thinking well ahead of the game.

"Then let's not upset him," Malik presses when Bashir remains silent. Seemingly content to smile and look. Malik flicks her hood back and stands in one smooth movement. Bashir's stare grows heavier and she can see him swallow. Malik hides a smirk as she walks further into the room. To where she can make out a bed in the dim light. "I want to see if Fateen has been telling me truth or exaggerations."

Bashir doesn't scramble after her. He's more dignified than that but his smile is no less eager for it as he follows her.

.

.

Aban is right. Experience and confidence make all the difference in the world.

Bashir undresses her himself and his hands linger on her skin. Taking every inch in with hands that aren't as soft as Dima's but still far softer than Malik's. His lips trailing fire over the scars she's starting to gain as he slips out of his simple clothing. Bashir is fascinated by her scars and the hardness of her muscles.

"Most women are so soft I fear to break them," Bashir says when he lifts his head from her breasts. His hands are firm against her, but not painful. "The one who would break here though is me."

Malik smiles and runs her hands down Bashir's broad back. Fingernails catching lightly enough to scratch but not break skin. He's tall and broad but Malik could still throw him, and he knows it. "Then don't give me a reason to want to."

Bashir feels good over her. His body covering hers almost completely as he moves against her. His hard cock dragging up the skin of her inner thigh as Malik wraps her legs around him. His fingers and mouth work her over so completely she's almost on the edge before he even slides a thick finger inside of her.

The difference is immense. She's wet and the intrusion is as smooth as Dima's clever fingers, wringing out a moan from Malik as his thumb rubs the sensitive folds of skin surrounding it. Bringing her higher with each pass of his fingers, with each pass of his lips on her chest. It's a relief when he pulls back and pushes his cock in instead.

The pain is so minimal it barely registers to Malik. Lost in the heated air between them and the soft moan of her fake name as Bashir adjusts her legs. Bringing one up high to the outside of his chest, straining her muscles there but allowing him impossibly closer.

"Move with me," Bashir says in her ear, his dark eyes bright and glittering as he looks down at her. Looks and drinks her in as he moves slowly.

Achingly slow, and Malik rolls up to meet him. The muscles in her stomach and thighs rippling for the movement that she's sure will grow tiresome quickly. She bites back the urge to throw Bashir. Get him on his back and take him faster when he smiles down at her. Obviously proud of himself and verging on the kind of smugness that gets a very specific response from her.

Malik closes her eyes to not see it and lets the sensation roll over her instead. Feels her pleasure unfurls and heat her skin. Faster when Bashir gives into the urging of her heels and thrusts faster. One hand going back to the folds of her skin and drawing out a sharp cry and reaction that leaves them both breathless.

Again and again until Malik's head is rolling back and stars burst across the back of her eyes as she cries out her finish. Bashir pulling out far too soon with a groan and his seed splashing onto her thigh in thick ropes.

Malik feels worn and used in a way that is a pleasure all of its own as Bashir presses lazy kisses to her skin. His hands equally lazy as they trail down her body. She waits for him to slow, his breathing to even, and then she extracts herself. Dresses unhurriedly and lets herself out through the window.

Aban will be along soon enough, or maybe he's already waiting for her. Malik takes off over the roofs and thinks that she's going to have to admit to him that it wasn't such a bad idea after all.

.

.

"I don't like it," Kadar says, and there's more than a hint of a whine to his voice as Hamid reaches out to clip the boy across the head. Lightly, but it still makes him scowl.

"I still do work for the Order," Hamid says sternly. The lines in his face are deep crags that suit the black robes of a Rafiq. "Keep to your lessons and I shall see you in Tyre soon, yes?"

Kadar grumbles but doesn't back away from the hug Hamid draws him into. Malik takes her time tying the large bag of belongings to the horse he will take to his new post. Listening to Hamid murmur to Kadar. Advice and words of wisdom suited for him. Malik has already had her turn and she sternly tells her eyes to stop watering even when Kadar sniffs. Loud and obvious.

Hamid's eyes are suspiciously bright as well when he painfully swings into the saddle. His lame leg moving only with great difficulty. He'll be in pain by mid-day, but the old man is too stubborn to acknowledge it. He'd thoroughly rejected the idea of taking a caravan to the city. Insisting a horse or his own two feet would do him fine. He smiles and the horse dances to the side, allowing him to reach down one last time and run a hand over both their heads. "Safety and peace be with you."

"And you as well, Rafiq," Malik says to the old man before he rides away.

.

.


	10. Chapter 10

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

.

* * *

.

It's not the last they see of Hamid. Malik takes to haunting him when her missions allow, and Kadar's writing improves through a lively correspondence. Tyre's Bureau is in a state of disrepair that requires the old man to return often enough it feels like he is only away on missions.

Kadar seems to grow overnight. He shoots up to tower over her and his voice begins to break at the most hilarious times. Wiry hair grows in patches from his face and the boy entertains the idea of growing it out for a few weeks. Until he realizes it's not growing fast enough and looks ridiculous.

The morning he leaps out of bed without prompting and won't meet her eyes she drags the young man to Hamid. Visiting for a fortunately timed few days, before returning to his post. Throws him at the old man with a feral grin and the sane words he'd said to her when she became a woman. "There are secrets you need to know, but I am not the one best suited to teaching them to you."

Hamid's laughter trails her out of the library.

.

.

"Your brother will be a heart breaker," Aban says as they wait. Crouched over an alley but out of sight from the occasional rooftop patrol. "You should hear the way the women sigh over his eyes."

Malik is not surprised. Eyes are one of the more favored topics among the women when she can't escape their clutches fast enough. She frowns though as a thought occurs to her that she did not consider before. "Will you talk to him when we return? I'm not sure he understands the best way to not impregnate a woman."

"And it's not like a blue eyed babe wouldn't immediately shout who the father is," Aban says with far too much amusement. "Why don't you do it? You know just as much as I do."

"He won't hear me," Malik says with a snort. The last time she had tried to speak of it Kadar had turned a horrid red and all but fled. "It embarrasses him to hear it from me."

Aban laughs, low so it doesn't carry. "Well the-"

They both go still and quiet as a white clad figure runs into the alley. Malik relaxes when she sees it's only a woman in white cloth. Aban doesn't and Malik hears the guard's shouts shortly after him. She curses Altair's inability to remain unnoticed as the guards shout to find the white robed man.

"Malik!" Aban hisses, eyes still on the woman. Who can, she realizes with horror, easily be mistaken. Probably already has going by the wild look in her eyes as she finds herself in the dead end alley. There's no doors or exits she can use and guards are almost on the alley.

Malik curses and leaps down. Ignoring the startled scream from the woman as she yanks off a robe from a line. Dark and still wet as she throws it over herself. She pushes the woman to the wall, rips her almost glowing head scarf off, and hisses at her, "Be silent and play along."

She had enough time to arrange the over large robe to cover the woman's white clothing before the shouts are too close. The woman's eyes are wide and fearful as Malik seals their lips together. Tilts their heads so that the simple action looks far more involved than it really is. The guards see them. One throws a harsh comment about whores out, but they move on quickly enough.

Malik steps away and listens as the shout fade. The woman wraps her scarf back around her with trembling fingers, her face is flushed and confused when she looks to Malik. "You are a woman."

She ignores the statement that's as much a question as anything else. "I suggest you return home, and not leave it for the next few days. You also might want to consider different clothing."

The woman runs and Malik climbs back up to the roof. Altair is there looking no worse for all the trouble he's caused. Malik snarls at him immediately, "What did you do? Walk up and personally inform every guard in the city of your actions?"

Altair's eyes narrow even further and his lips thin. He's angry and Malik is glad for it because so is she. The fool has made things that much more difficult for them all. No doubt on purpose.

Aban's sigh cuts through an argument that would have brought more attention on them. "Have I ever told you how much I appreciate the sight of two women kissing?"

"No," Malik growls as most of her anger deflates to a more familiar irritation. "Your perversions have never interested me Aban."

"Oh it's a rather common one actually. All men appreciate it. Even Altair, right?" Aban smiles despite the black gaze Altair gives him.

"No, I don't," Altair bites out before he takes off, clearly done with the conversation.

Malik lets the fool go. The guards are still on alert, and Altair will no doubt attract even more attention to himself just to have an excuse to fight. His lack of subtlety is infuriating at times. Malik would rather make her way back to the Bureau without drawing attention or fights.

"Not all men are as perverse as you, Aban," Malik says to her friend who's watching Altair go with a faint smirk that's going to get him punched one of these days.

"They are, even Altair has his desires," Aban says and his smirk blooms into the grin he gets when he's found a nice bit of gossip. "Altair is just better at hiding it than most. Well, to some people at least."

"I'd rather not know," Malik slinks out over the roof, pausing to give Aban a questioning look.

"Oh, no, I'll be out for the night," Aban nods in the direction opposite of her goal. He has a dozen lovers in each city it seems, and rarely spends nights in the Bureau after a mission. His own way of celebrating success she supposes. "You two have fun in that musty building without me."

Malik snorts and leaves him. She's not surprised to make safety before Altair, or that when he does saunter in his robes are spotted with blood that hadn't been there when she saw him on the roofs.

.

.

"Do you prefer women?" Altair asks as the sun sinks and the Rafiq retires, leaving them to the cushions and darkness of the courtyard.

Malik slits her eyes open to glare at the man. He's on his back, arms crossed under his head, and looks completely disinterested in any response she may have for him. "I overheard you with Aban's sister once. She seemed-" Altair looks at her quickly then away, a line creases the skin between his eyes faintly.

"Angry?" Malik sighs and closes her eyes. Dima and her demands. The woman is lucky she wasn't overheard by anyone else. Altair remains silent and that's as good as any words that he's curious. "Hm, that will end. Sooner rather than later, she is getting too demanding and the Order comes first. She cannot understand that."

"She told you to _leave_ it," Altair says the word as if it both disgusts and confuses him. "Doesn't she understand anything?"

"No, I don't think she does," not many of the civilians of Masyaf do actually. Malik has found it at times surprising and concerning how little they know despite living in the shadows of the Assassins. "It doesn't matter. I don't have the time to spend with her like I used to. It's probably for the best to move on."

"To another woman?" Altair asks, strangely dogged in this point.

"Perhaps," Malik stretches her legs out and shoves one of the cushions to a better angle under her neck. "Or perhaps a man. Both have their advantages and disadvantages."

Altair is silent a while and Malik looks over. His eyes are closed, and she wonders if he's fallen asleep until he speaks again. "What would those be?"

"To which?" Malik asks with a frown. Altair has often come to her like this, much rarely lately, with frank questions about sex. Malik has always struggled to answer him, but she has tried her best. She's quite frankly terrified of anyone trying to learn technique from Aban, and Nasir has the rest of their peers convinced women don't reach orgasm. "Altair, what I tell you would only apply to me, as myself and as a woman. There is very little of it that would even apply to you. It may be-"

"Tell me!" Altair interrupts, with a frown even as he keeps his eyes closed. "Tell me what those advantages and disadvantages are to you, for both, and let _me_ decide how they might apply."

Demanding, Malik scowls and considers not answering, but this is the one area in life where Altair does not contest her. Demands and questions? Yes. But he doesn't challenge her or compete with her in it. Just listens and expects a kind of frankness and honesty that has made even Aban flustered a time or two.

"Women know best how to touch," Malik says with a sigh and closing her own eyes. "They have the same parts, and the experience shows in the pressure of their fingers. They know all the sensitive spots and how long it takes to become aroused. Much longer than men if you were wondering. I don't have to guide them as much, though they will take instruction without fuss," Malik frowns and considers, but finds little else that makes a woman so very different as a lover. "Women are passive though, they may take the lead a bit, but will eventually stop," which isn't a bad thing, but lately Malik feels a little overtired at putting so much work into Dima who only lays down and receives. "And they do get irrationally attached. At least that's been my experience so far."

Altair is silent and says nothing, but she knows he's not asleep now.

"Men are firmer, because they don't know how sensitive the flesh they touch is, and that's not an entirely bad thing all the time. They also tend to bruise less, so I don't need to be overly worried about my strength," Malik remembers Basir's shoulders and how her fingers had dented his flesh but not left marks like they would had she done the same to Dima. "They are straightforward in their wants and don't force you to guess. If a man wants something he'll say it, and the honesty is something I appreciate. However they also tend to make a big deal out of me doing the same to them. Their pride tends to make them resent it when I try to instruct them."

Good as her few nights with Basir were, the hard tilt to his mouth when she voiced her own needs had been enough to end that lover before things had the potential to get ugly.

Altair scoffs almost silently bur Malik hears it all the same. "Oh? Like you have anything to mock, Altair. I've yet to see you take an order with any kind of grace."

"Orders are different, and don't apply to sex," Altair mutters and rolls over on his side so his back is to her in preparation of sleeping. "_Requests_ are something I would gladly comply with."

"I'll believe that when I hear it," Malik rolls over the opposite way. Keeping her back to his so that they have a complete view of the room. Safe as it is, the habit is a good one to keep.

Altair says something, too low for Malik to hear. She makes a questioning grunt but the man doesn't repeat himself, and Malik shrugs it off. Allowing herself to drift off to sleep.

.

.


	11. Chapter 11

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

.

* * *

.

Malik is leaving Dima's home, a wonderfully dramatic free visit, when Masyaf is invaded.

The sight of unfamiliar armed men does not truly register to her at first. The gates refuse entry to those not authorized to bear arms in the city, and thus any man armed would be authorized. It's not until a single scream rips through the air that Malik realizes these men have a deadly intent to them. It's enough to bring Malik's head up and her mind fully away from the mush that Dima never fails to make it. Enough to send her diving under the arc of a sword that cuts the air where her head once was.

She throws a knife as she comes up, and it finds a bit of flesh between the armor and helmet of one of the men. Now that she's paying attention the armor looks to brand the man as one of the damned French men taking up the title of Crusader once again. Malik snarls and blocks a second blow with her own sword. She shoves up with the full weight of her body, and it's enough to push him off balance. To flail his arms out enough that Malik's sword can bite deep into the unprotected area under the armpit and end him.

Screams fill the air and Malik throws herself up onto the roof of the nearest house. Looks down at the parts of the city she can see and watches as the citizens run from a spill of armored men charging in through the wide open gates. The guards lying dead on the ground in spreading pools of blood.

Fury licks through Malik's veins and she snarls as she turns back to the invaders cutting a swath through Masyaf. Their path taking them straight up to the citadel where Brothers in white are spilling out to meet them. Malik tenses, ready to run to join them and defend the city.

"Malika!"

Dima's voice cuts through her plans. High and filled with fear. Malik turns and the woman is on the street below her. Hands to her face as she backs away from the Crusaders Malik had killed. Her eyes dart around to the growing chaos of the city as people run. "Malika!"

A group of invaders barrels down the street, swords cutting through the people running from them, and Dima _screams_.

Malik throws herself over to the next roof and falls on the men from above. Sword cutting down one man and two knives flying from her other hand. It's a mess of limbs from there as the men try to attack her without getting in each other's way.  
They fail, horribly, and Malik uses it to her advantage. Weaving through their ranks agilely so that she's never in the same spot. They practically kill themselves, and she's just helping them along with precise cuts from her the sword in her left hand and the dagger in her right.

It's almost too easy, Malik is used to working much harder than this for victory. The last one falls when his helmet fails to cover his neck adequately, and Malik is left on the now nearly empty street with blood staining the arms of her robes up to her shoulders.

Smoke rises into the air from somewhere and Malik can still hear the clash of fighting. She's confident though that her Brother's will be able to take these invaders down easily. The citizens are another matter.

_The innocent must be protected,_ Hamid's voice is clear in her mind.

Malik turns and finds many eyes on her besides Dima's. People huddle in the alcoves and doorways of the buildings, an older woman Malik knows by sight but not name holds Dima tight with a hand wrapped around her mouth. For the best, Malik's eyes skitter away from Dima who is locked in an unthinking fear. Her dark eyes fixed on the bodies at Malik's feet and unblinking.

"To the tower!" Malik snaps pointing to one of the lesser used buildings. It's built into a section of the walls that overlooks a sheer cliff face and is used for climbing exercises. It has little use as anything else, but will do just fine as a sanctuary. "Go! Quickly!"

They break off in a small trickle that gets larger as people leave their buildings. Malik waits and watches the avenues leading from the gates. She can hear the pounding of feet and the jingle of plate armor approaching. It cuts her off from where the main fighting is, but Malik melts back into the shadows as she follows the civilians. Watching the rear as the invaders close in.

.

.

Malik nearly takes Kadar's hand off when the boy rounds a blind corner. His eyes are wide with something that is part terror and mostly something far from it. He's holding a sword to long for his reach still, but there is blood on it and his face that is not his.

"Move!" Malik shouts because a man crashes around almost on his heels and she only has a split second to get the tip of her sword into the weak spot most of the men seem to have on their sides. Where two plate meet, often poorly.

Kadar _laughs_ and before Malik can snap at him for it another body crashes around the building. Blood already flowing down from a throwing knife embedded in the back of his neck as he falls to his knees, and Malik can hear Aban cursing Kadar before he's even in sight.

"Your brother has a death wish!" He snaps when he sees her, reaching down to yank his knife out of the body. Head turning all around as he looks for more of the enemy.

"Best time to have it," Malik contents herself with a quick glance at Kadar. He's in no pain and seems to be standing strong. That's all she allows herself, because there's not time for more. "This way."

Malik runs after the civilians she'd allowed to get ahead of her to take care of what sounded like the next group of invaders closing in. The group grew larger as they get closer to the tower. People following the lead of Malik, seeing the white under the drying blood and trusting it immediately. Aban and Kadar follow without question and they catch up to the people quickly.

"They're burning buildings they can't get into," Kadar says, slightly out of breath. The sword he holds is dragging, the weight unfamiliar to him and wearing him out. The tip drags on the ground and Malik slaps his arm hard to get him to pull it up. Battle or not it's a bad habit to have. "They're thickest up further. Trying to take the citadel. The rest are spreading out to attack the defenseless."

"We've lost a lot of people," Aban adds, grim as they pause to let the panicked people flow ahead of them. The tower already open and accepting them. Three Novices ushering them in under the eye of an old Rafiq. It's slow getting so many into the small door, and Malik doubts they'll all fit even if they climb all the way to the top. "Our Brothers, mostly. Something horrible has happened to let it get this far."

An arrow flies through the air and sinks into the ground at Malik's feet before she can respond. They scramble for cover as more follow. They're just short of being a real danger to anyone, but the sight of the arrows flying only increases the panic of the civilians and they begin to push harder to get in the tower despite the Rafiq's shouts. Malik curses and rolls down onto the ground to look out from behind the cart she's behind.

She sees the end of a gray robe and scrambling boots go over the edge of a roof across the street, and little else. The bowman is on a roof somewhere. Malik catches sight of furtive movement just as the sound of running feet and clanking armor grows louder.

"Best time to have a death wish you say?" Aban's voice echoes out from one of the open doorways of the buildings lining the street.

"Yes!" Malik shouts out so that she is sure to be heard by both of them. "And if either of you idiots actually die I will kill you. Do you understand?"

A choked cry is her only answer and Malik watches as a man clutching a bow tumbles to the ground. Kadar's hooded head pulling back over the edge of the roof as a large group of armed men comes in sight.

She crawls under the cart and darts out from under it in time to catch the first attacker unaware. Her sword knocking his out of his hand and dagger plunging deep into the eye slit of the helmet. Three more take his place and Malik smiles grimly as she sets to work.

.

.

Altair rescues the Master, kills the one who betrayed the Order, and is rewarded very well for it.

The promotion to Master Assassin -skipping _several_ ranks- should burn but Malik cannot find it in herself to feel it. Betrayal burns far brighter than anything else in both her and Kadar.

"I thought he was a friend," Kadar says late in the night when they should both be asleep but aren't. Their muscles still ache from the graves that had to be dug, the bodies that had to be carried, the debris that needed to be cleared.

Haras' betrayal of the Order stings bright and sharp in Kadar's voice, and Malik remembers the boy. Always eager and friendly seeming even to Kadar who was younger than him.

"I'm glad he's dead," Kadar spits out with a venom she never knew her brother to possess. "After everything he did, everyone he killed-"

Malik slips out of her bed and pushes her way into his. Wrapping Kadar up in the blankets and her arms as he weeps for the many Novices who died to a crossbow bolt.

.

.

Hamid is tired, the skin under his eyes bruised looking, and his limp more pronounced than it should be. The meetings with the Master go long and drain all present, but the Order benefits and improves daily from them. Malik passes the old man a cup of cool water and he accepts it gratefully. Letting a little flow over his fingertips to clear it of the dried blood that had flaked off of Kadar's sword when he examined it closely.

"I think I have underestimated the boy," Hamid says and Malik swallows down a slew of reflexive words. Hamid's eyes are calm and firm when he looks at her. The smiles and weary cheer he'd greeted her with gone the moment he spotted the sword Kadar had liberated and used from one of the Crusaders. "It doesn't trouble him, does it?"

"No," the word is dragged out reluctantly from her. Malik's instinct is to protect her brother, and it flares bright even though it's _Hamid_ pressing her for answers.

The weariness in his face multiplies, and Hamid looks ancient as his shoulders slump. "You say you fought next to him. Did he enjoy it, Malik?"

Malik remembers Kadar's laugh as she killed, and the smile that had stretched across his face when she saw him darting through the streets between opponents. His hands red with fresh blood.

"No," Malik lies because Kadar is a boy still. A young man, and there is a joy to be taken in battle against a force that has wronged him. Revenge is an acceptable thing. Kadar is not the kind of man that Hamid fears most, Malik knows that. Kadar is just young. He can learn and reign it in easily enough.

Hamid nods, accepting her answer. "I'll speak to him before I go," his smile comes back a bit. "Now tell me how you've really been."

.

.

The city slowly rebuilds though suspicion is high among the city and the Order.

Their ranks are thinned too much to allow the lack of trust to last for long. Malik rises in rank faster than she would have before. The void of their dead needing to be filled quickly.

She finds herself running mission after mission as the Master works on bringing back all that he can spare to Masyaf. Each mission she goes on she receives the same secondary task, look for anyone suitable for training.

Malik's missions hardly allow her to talk to anyone though. She's a shadow, slipping into cities, finding her target, ending their life, and slipping out before the alarms can even be raised.

Altair is missing his ring finger when she sees him next. The flesh still pink with the hardening scar but otherwise healed. The hidden blade already a natural extension of his body as he smirks down at her from where he's pinned her with it. "How much higher do you need to reach before you are even allowed a hidden blade, Malik?"

"One!" Malik growls and sweeps her leg up at his head. Forcing him to dodge or take the blow. "Don't think yourself so high that you're untouchable, I'm right behind you Altair."

"No," Altair blocks her punch and quickly grabs on to her forearm. Pulling as he spins around her, getting her in an arm lock that pulls her arm across her chest even as steps into her back. His knee between her legs, ready to kick out and upset her balance for a throw, but he stops there. "_I'm_ the one behind you."

"Funny," Malik says in a tone she know conveys the opposite. Altair has her fully and is only playing with her now. Not moving to pull away or to throw her. Leaving her balanced precariously on the balls of her feet, relying more on Altair's grip to stay standing than her own two feet.

"Dima doesn't speak to you anymore," Altair says, tone even as he decides now is the _perfect_ time to have a conversation about _Dima_ of all things.

"No, she doesn't," Malik bites out and considers her options to get free. Short of accepting she'll wrench her shoulder there aren't many.

Dima hasn't spoken to her since the invasion. She avoids Aban too thought the man hasn't noticed it just yet. Mali has though. She's spent an afternoon watching Dima work the family stall with trembling hands, and refuse to look or even speak to any Assassin.

Masoud does though, and his unknowing apologies about their 'friendship' don't do much to satisfy the unspoken end to her relationship with Dima. The small family is only days away from leaving Masyaf for good, and Malik knows Dima won't say a word to her about it. Despite the fact that Malik knew it would end, soon, this is not the end that she'd prepared herself for.

Altair must sense some of her turmoil. Uncharacteristically his hands gentle and his body curves until the hold is almost an embrace. "I will speak to you if you want Malik."

Malik laughs, short and sharp as she easily pulls out of the hold now. She doesn't spin herself into an attack immediately even though there's a part of her that wants to. Wants to continue the spar and vent her frustration that way despite how badly she needs to stay in good shape for the missions.

"No," Malik rolls her shoulders as she steps away. Altair is horrible with his words, and she supposes she should be touched by his completely unexpected offer to talk. It's not what they do though. They hurl insults and barbs at each other's soft spots until the pain of it goes numb. This offer stinks of pity and her lips curl into a sneer she aims over her shoulder. "Save your pity for someone who deserves it."

Altair's face is blank, but his jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth. Malik shakes her head and walks away. She's tired of the sympathetic routine from Aban already, and doesn't need it from Altair too.

.

.


	12. Chapter 12

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

.

* * *

.

Malik receives her hidden blade quickly.

She wears it at all times, getting used to the weight and the feel of it on her arm. Oiling the leather of the bracers until it's soft and flexible, and loses any hint of the shine that had come with it when it was new.

She's constantly aware of it. Of the deadly blade that is a simple trigger away from being used. Her fingers flex and ache to trigger it, but she's not allowed to. Not yet. One more rank and she will be taken before the Master, will give her oath to the Creed again, and then her finger will be taken.

Then there will only be one rank left for her to obtain then.

.

.

The Novices that survived the attack are elevated above the ones that come in new. Malik learns of this when Kadar informs her he's going on a mission that sounds an awful lot like a trial but isn't.

"Sa'id says they still have too much to learn to be trusted alone," Aban says as they wait at the gates for her brother to arrive with the horses. "But they've proven themselves able to handle this."

_This_ is reconnaissance. A mission to go out and track the invading armies. Get their numbers and a general feel for who is allying with them. A mission of stealth that Malik knows will devolve into a bloody skirmish in a matter of seconds.

_Will_ not if.

"Take care of him," Malik says, trying for an ease she really doesn't feel as Kadar comes into sight with the mounts. He's excited. Understandable, any Novice would feel that way. It's normal.

"He will be fine," Aban scoffs and claps her on the shoulder. His grin wry as he admits, "I think he might have done better than me when it came to cutting down those invaders."

That is what concerns her. Malik smiles though when Kadar gets close enough to hear. "Still, he's the only brother I have. I don't have spare siblings like you do Aban."

"I'll lend you a few if you want," Aban says as he takes his choice of the horses. Swinging up with an ease Kadar tries to mimic. He almost gets it too. "I'll even throw in a handful of nieces and nephews, just for you."

"Keep them," Kadar says as he grins at them both. His horse paws at the ground, catching some of his impatience. "Our room is too crowded as it is."

"And you think my home isn't?" Aban quips back, he nods to her and kicks his horse into a slow trot.

"Don't let him talk you into something stupid," Malik says and slaps her hand to Kadar's side before making herself step back. Kadar only laughs at her before following Aban away from Masyaf for the first time in years.

.

.

The air between Malik and Altair goes sour in a way that she cannot trace or understand.

Altair is out on his own missions more often than not, and the few times she meets him he is not all there. Altair's eyes are far away beyond Masyaf, and there's a burning anger in them when his attention is brought back. Few people offer to spar with the man when enters the training arena. He doesn't bother holding back even the slightest bit, and it's only Nazir's quick reflexes that keep him from losing more than the sleeve to his robe when the man pushes his luck.

Whispers of Chalices and a woman named Adha filter through the ranks, but Malik pays them little attention. Aban is the one with the ear to determine what is truth and what is embellishment. She'll have to wait for his return to truly know what is happening.

Altair certainly isn't giving one hint to it.

"You're turning feral," Malik mocks as they circle each other in the ring. Her arm aches from the force of his blows. Fast and unrelenting enough that she can't even try dodging him. Can only take it and divert his blade when she can. "What has you in such a foul mood?"

A fist to the gut is her answer. Malik grunts and uses the force of the blow to propel herself backward and away from Altair. To put more distance between them and get her sword back up. Altair's eyes aren't far away anymore. They're focused on her in all their anger and Malik only wonders for a little while if she might not have been better off keeping her mouth shut.

"You are dangerous, Altair," Malik presses as she lashes out with her sword. Altair negligently deflects it, just enough that it doesn't do more than part a single layer of cloth. His smirk is expected but Malik corrects his assumption before he can say anything. "You are a danger to the Brotherhood right now. The little regard you normally have for others is completely gone now. If you can't control yourself, you _will_ kill one of our own."

Fury has always made Altair's eyes seem to glow, turning the already light color almost golden. The women of the city remark on it with sighs, but Malik knows it for the warning it is. "Are you calling me a traitor?"

"No," Malik blocks a blow with her sword and has to use her right hand to support it as Altair bears down on her. Using all of his weight to drive her to one knee. "But if you can't control this anger you will become one without meaning to be! The Creed-"

"I know the Creed!" Altair kicks out and Malik turns her body enough to take the blow to her side. It unsettles Altair enough for her to throw him off with a grunt. Nearly sending him stumbling to the ground as she catches the back of his knee with her own kick. "Do not think to lecture me on things I already know, Malik!"

"If you know it so well, then why do you not follow it?" Malik throws herself at him. Striking out fast with a flurry that puts him on his guard for once. "The tales of your missions grow as do their cost."

"Do not!"

Malik cries out sharply as Altair stops blocking, lets her sword score a line against his arm, and takes the opening of her surprise to punch her. Her head snaps back as the knuckles catch her jaw, forcing her mouth shut painfully over her tongue. Blood fills her mouth and Malik reels. Trying to get the distance she needs as her vision swims, but Altair doesn't allow it. He's on her in a flash. Tackling her to the ground as both their swords clatter away from them.

"You know nothing of my missions," the feel of four fingers around her throat is alien. The scared stump from Altair's final promotion digs bluntly into her skin and the threat of the hidden blade is obvious as he snarls into her face. He's beyond fury and in this moment Malik knows that he is truly capable of anything. "Don't speak as if you do, Malik. You know nothing!"

The force of his fingers chokes her words off, and Malik wonders if they will tighten further.

"Don't speak to me about the Creed or _cost_," Altair spits before he releases her and is gone.

Malik coughs and rubs her throat with a grimace as she rolls to her feet. A flutter of white the only thing she sees of Altair's exit. Malik spits out a blob of blood onto the ground and is certain that it's only a matter of time now.

.

.

Aban returns with Kadar just as she's being summoned for another mission. He appears tired and it doesn't get much better when he sees her in the halls headed to the Master. He reaches out and lays a hand on her shoulder briefly, "When you are done we must talk."

He's worried and pensive, but Malik doesn't get the chance to find out what about before she's on the road again. Following Altair and fending off the questions of Kadar as they head to Jerusalem. The importance of the mission all that keeps her from snapping at the sneer Altair sends their way when he catches Kadar's voice.

.

.

The side entrance to the temple is where the informant told her it would be. It's not, Malik is displeased to note, as untended as the man had led her to believe.

An old man shuffles around in the faint light of the torches, his clothing and tools placing him as one of the workers hired by the Templars to clear the rubble. There is no way to pass around him without raising an alarm.

It matters not.

The Temple is old and not so well constructed that they cannot find another way in. Malik turns to her companions. Kadar looks up, eyes eager and barely containing his excitement at the mission. So soon after his first, and Malik has little doubt that Kadar will rise in rank soon after this. She has to hide a smile at the thought of Kadar in all white. It becomes easier when she sees Altair moving without warning either of them. The torchlight gleaming off his unsheathed blade.

"Wait!" The cry rips out of Malik's throat even though she knows it is too late from the tension in his body and the speed of his charge. "There must be another way, this one need not die!"

Altair does not even pause as he leaps on the old man. With a strangled moan blood stains the ground and Malik feels anger that's been boiling low for the entire journey start to spill over.

"An excellent kill! Fortune favors your blade," Kadar's enthusiasm is not diminished in the least by the kill. He does not understand fully what Altair has just done.

"Not fortune. Skill!" Altair stands and turns to face her. Even in the dimness of his hood she can see his grin. All teeth and challenge as he address them both. "Watch a while longer and you might learn."

"Indeed!" Malik spits out, kneeling beside the man. She does not expect a pulse, but checks to be absolutely sure. The man had been _innocent_. "He will teach you how to disregard everything the Master has taught us."

"And how would you have done it?" Altair asks with a smirk.

"I would not have called attention to us. I would not have taken the life of an innocent," Malik rises to her feet, anger burning through her hotly even as she fights to keep her voice low. "What I would have done is follow the Creed!"

"_Nothing is true, everything is permitted,_" Altair quotes the words she knows so very well to her as if she were a mere Novice. "Understand these words. It matters not how we complete our task. Only how it is done."

Malik shakes her head violently, pointing at the dead man, "This is _not_ the way! Not how we were taught!"

"My way is better," Altair states simply. The casual disregard for the Creed is nothing new for Altair, but this is something entirely different. His bending of the second tenet is nothing on this shattering of the first.

Malik snarls wordlessly, her hand itching to draw her blade and cut the arrogant ass down to size. "I will scout ahead. Try not to dishonor us further," she enters the tunnel before the idiot can say anything more. There will be plenty of time to teach the man a lesson in humility after their mission is complete. For now, she tries to disregard Altair and concentrates on finding the treasure the Master requires.

The tunnel itself is unguarded. Malik can hear Kadar questioning Altair, and briefly regrets leaving him behind. Her brother still idolizes the man for some unfathomable reason. Leaving him with Altair too much might lead to Kadar picking up some of his more questionable habits. She has to regain control of her anger though, preferably before Altair finds a new angle to attack.

Pits line the cave and she leaps them easily feeling her calm returning with the easy bit of exercise. It's enough to keep her from snapping when Altair comes along. Grandstanding and smirking as if he expects praise for the tricks. Malik shakes her head and gestures him ahead with a sneering flourish. Wanting the mission finished before more harm can be done.

There's another body on the ground when she climbs the ladder after him. It wears Crusader colors and she ignores it as she walks past the all too pleased Altair into a well-lit chamber. Scaffolding and ladders line the area, but her attention is on their target.

"There!" Malik says, voice low, as she regards the ornate container. "That must be the Ark!"

Kadar is inquisitive, and Altair is dismissive. Malik will have his hide for it later, but she's busy regarding the orb that looks to be solidly attached to the casing. The Master's assurance it will come our easily only reassures her somewhat. She's about to jump down and retrieve it when her ears catch the sound of heels on stone.

"Quiet!" Malik hisses, her eyes snapping down to the floor and the entrance she can hear booted feet coming from. "Someone's coming!"

Half a dozen men stride into the room. Their armor neat and well fitted to their bodies. Malik narrows her eyes at them and looks for any weaknesses or opening to be used to her advantage. There are very few. She only realizes the man who must be their leader has said something worth listening to when Altair goes taut with tension next to her.

"Robert de Sable," Altair growls, and Malik looks harder at the man who has proven so dangerous to the Order. "His life is mine!"

"No! We need to retrieve the treasure and deal with Robert only if necessary," the mission comes first. The Master has not asked for de Sable's life, only the orb the man is directing his people to take.

"He stands between us and it!" Altair spits, the fury she's grown so used to seeing in him nearly doubled now. His eyes blaze with it and he hasn't actually looked away from de Sable at all. "I would say it's necessary!"

"Discretion, Altair!" Malik reminds him, because there's bending the second tenent and then there's _this_. The Crusader knows a dangerous bit of the Order already, adding more to it will only lead to an open battle. Something they cannot afford, not with their ranks still rebuilding.

"You mean cowardice, I thought better of you Malik," Altair spits, and it's not a goading taunt. It's disappointment and disgust that makes her jaw clench tight to hold back the scream she wants to give voice to. "That man is our greatest enemy and here we have a chance to be rid of him!"

"You have already broken two tenets of our Creed," Malik spits back, her fists clenching tight and the hidden blade she wears dangerously close to being triggered. "Now you would break the third. _Do not compromise the Brotherhood_, Altair!"

"I am your superior, in both title and ability. You should know better than to question me," Altair gives her a cold smirk and before she can stop him, he's vaulted over the edge of the ledge they've been hiding on.

"Damn him!" Malik draws her sword and throws herself down after him. Kadar a half step behind her as Altair confronts the Crusaders head on like the idiot he is.

"Well, this explains my missing man," Robert de Sable is an imposing man, topping even Altair's height by a bit. He's calm in the face of the unexpected intrusion. Hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword as he smiles in amusement. "And what is it you want?"

"Blood," Altair states and lunges for de Sable. All fury and intent without a single shred of the skill she knows he has.

Malik growls and reaches out for Altair. Grabbing hold of the back of his robe too briefly to pull him back. A thwarted attempt to get the man to calm down and act like the Assassin he is. "Altair!"

de Sable has the advantage, has had it from the start when Altair let his anger guide him. Malik palms a few throwing knives but the Crusader uses his hands and she can't throw without hitting Altair. She almost considers throwing anyway as a lesson.

Kadar steps next to her, and Malik is distracted because he's _returning_ to her side. The young man grins at her, all mischief as he presses the sphere they were sent to get into the pouch at her hip. His mind in the proper place despite the sorry example Altair and Malik have set thus far.

"Good," she mutters and turns back to see Altair lifted off his feet, hands clutching at de Sable as the man says something to him. "Get ready to run."

Kadar's grin doesn't slip, but his sword is already out and he's edging towards the door the Crusaders came through.

Altair flies through the air, but Malik only hears the sound of scaffolding collapsing under the idiot's weight. Her attention is already focused on the three Templars that block their escape route.

"Men, to arms!" de Sable spins around, his own blade clearing it's scabbard with a ring that echoes in Malik's ears. "Kill the Assassins!"

.

.


	13. Chapter 13

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

.

The sword pins her to the wall, sinking through her left arm as an armored body slams against her. One leg trapping hers, and a forearm laying heavily over her right arm to stop her from lashing out. Malik can't help the scream as the sword jerks sending waves of agony through her.

"You fight well for a mongrel bitch," de Sable sneers down at her. Face haughty and filled with victory. "I let the other one go to carry my message, but you too will also carry it. Though it will be written in your blood and mangled flesh."

"Malik!" Kadar roars and there's a scream that isn't his. The sword jolts again and Malik's eye snap open as de Sable's arm leaves her right side.

Kadar stares at her from over the man's shoulder. Surprise etched into his face as blood slowly begins to drip down from his throat. From the throwing knife de Sable took from her, and is twisting in his throat. The life drains from Kadar's eyes and he falls to the ground with a dull thump.

"A lover, perhaps? Or something else?" de Sable is _smiling_. Cruel to see but the expression looks almost sweet on him as he brings his bloody hand back to cup her cheek. Kadar's blood warm against her skin as he soothes her. "Do not worry, you will join him soon enough, and then you can both welcome the rest of your flea bitten order as well."

Malik screams as she punches him with her right arm. Ignoring the way her vision swims as the sword is yanked back from her arm when de Sable's head snaps back. He grunts with pain and surprise, and Malik's following through with it before she can think. Left hand clenching into a fist and triggering the spring of her hidden blade. The pain of her ring finger being mangled is bright but Malik pays it no mind as she drives the blade towards de Sable's neck in a wild move that doesn't connect but forces him back two steps.

"Give up, _Malik_!" de Sable snaps, sword up and the soft skin of his neck covered as he angles his head down. He kicks Kadar's body away and Malik chokes on fury to see her brother roll lifelessly. "You are outnumbered, the end is obvious. Why not make this as painless for yourself as possible."

The artifact sways with her, bumping into her leg and Kadar's grin fills her mind. His pride obvious at having taken it with no one the wiser.

The Crusaders fan out, weapons up and cautious for all that they're confident they have her. Malik can't fight them. Not any longer. Her left arm is losing strength quickly. Malik licks her lips and lets the arm shake as much as it wants to as her eyes drift almost completely shut.

A man on her right steps forward, his sword dipping a little too low.

She's on him before de Sable's cry of warning can finish. The man falls with her hidden blade through his eye and Malik has an open path ahead of her. She _runs_.

.

.

There's only one horse waiting for her when she stumbles out of the city. Alarms ring loud behind her, but Malik pays the sound no heed as she drags herself up onto it. Her pain filled mind doesn't make the connection to why the other two are gone until she's kicking it into a run and Jerusalem shrinks behind her.

Altair.

The jolt of hooves on the ground blinds her for minutes, maybe hours. Malik can't really tell. Her wounds bleed fire even through the hasty bandages she's managed to pull on somewhere between the Temple and the walls of the city. She barely remembers doing it, forgets they're there until the fluttering white edge of one slowly coming undone on her left arm catches her eye.

Malik focuses on the mission, on the weight of the artifact at her side, moving with each jolting step. She tries to focus her thoughts on getting it back to the Master.

She can't help noticing though, the signs of someone else's passage. Two horses bearing one person who _fled_ when he should have turned around, when he should have _helped_. Altair's flight is obvious to her eyes.  
It helps far better than thinking of the damn mission and Malik grasps it gladly. She uses the anger and the rage at this betrayal to keep her upright in the saddle, to push the horse to its limits, and to block out the paralyzing pain of Kadar's lifeless eyes that she sees every time she blinks.

.

.

The journey passes in a blur of pain and rage. The horse breathes like a bellow under her, and she pushes it as much as she dares. Until it's nearly blind from sweat and tiredness. It will be unusable when she's done with it, but that doesn't matter. She _has_ to reach Masyaf!

Her teeth ache from the pain of keeping her pain in as she charges right through Crusader outposts. Alive with their people swarming despite the late hour when she comes upon them. Horses saddled and weapons being readied as they prepare to march out. de Sable's poisonous voice rings in her ears, his knowledge a threat she can see he's going to carry through with.

Hands pull her from her horse when she reaches the gates of Masyaf. "An army approaches," she gasps to the Novices set to guard it. She pushes them away and staggers forward, tasting blood. "Close the gates! The Crusaders are coming to lay siege to the city."

She does not wait for a response as she runs as fast as she can to the citadel. To the Master who is no doubt being told lies by Altair. People part before her, and she hardly pays their horrified faces any mind. Doesn't acknowledge the words or questions pressed onto her until arms catch her as she's falling forward.

"Malik! What has happened," Aban asks when she can look up. His eyes are wide as he looks back the way he's come. "Altair just passed me, why did he not- You need to go to the infirmary. Where is Kadar?"

"No," Malik protests weakly as he pulls her up the path to the citadel. She grows louder as he moves to take her to the lower level. "No! I must speak to the Master!"

"You'll die of blood loss if you are not seen right now," Aban refuses and Malik is too weak to shake him off.

She rips the bag from her belt, thrusting it into his face, and Aban has to let her go to catch the orb as it rolls out.  
"This is what the Master ordered brought back. Kadar gave his life to get it. The Crusaders are on my heels, and Altair goes to tell the Master of my death and the failure of the mission," Malik spits out as she lurches for the stairs that will take her to the Master's study. "I'll not let his betrayal stand while I bleed out down there, Aban. I _will_ see his face as I inform the Master of the truth."

Aban follows with barely a protest. His silence is stunned, disbelieving even as they draw near to the study. Malik's steps swaying once more.

The Master's voice rings, harsh and loud with a question that makes Malik burn more than her wounds can account for. "Where are Malik and Kadar?"

The burn is nothing compared to the rage that comes over her when she hears Altair's dismissive tone, void of emotion or care, "Dead."

It's enough to push her further, to make her numb legs carry her into the Master's study with a snarl as her blood drips from her useless fingers to stain the stones beneath her. "No, not dead!"

Altair stands before the Master, head bowed but no trace of humility in him at all even before his head snaps toward her. She gets a good look at his wide, startled eyes before he tilts his head and the hood hides him from the world again.

"I still live at least!" Malik spits to him. Bitterness flooding her mouth as she confirms that the man she trusted to her back had truly thought her and Kadar dead. Had not bothered to stay and confirm it with his own eyes, taking to the road instead to ride to safety on his own. Like a coward.

"And your brother?" The Master asks as his eyes go to the empty air behind her.

"Gone," the word rips Malik open all over again. Kadar's dead eyes stare at her with no recognition and she has nothing more to say. Her rage choking out any other attempt to report to the Master as she turns her bleeding body towards the man responsible for it. "Because of you!"

"Robert threw me from the roof! There was no way back, nothing I could do," Altair protests heatedly, his last words dismissive as he turns away from her. Aiming his sorry excuse at the Master and not her.

"Because you would not heed my warning! All of this could have been avoided!" Malik screams and the force of it, of her rage and grief nearly sends her to her knees. Her vision swims, and the pain in her body doubles. Not yet, she begs her body not to collapse. Not after traveling so far so quickly to get here.

"And my brother!" Malik chokes on Kadar's name and Altair's back goes rigid. Anger or guilt, it matters not. Malik will have her peace for this, and it will be at the cost of his blood. "My brother would still be alive! Your arrogance nearly cost us victory today!"

"Nearly?" The Master asks and Malik wants to rage at him too. His interest only piqued now with the piece of metal he wants. It's treason to think the thoughts she has, but Malik cares not any longer.

"I brought what your favorite failed to find," Malik says bitterly and jerks her chin at Aban to come in. "Here! Take it," Aban's face is perfectly blank as he hands over the object to the Master, but his eyes blaze with an unspoken warning when he steps back to her side. Coming up to take her arm despite her snarl. "Though it seems I have returned with more than just treasure."

Malik goes nearly limp as a Novice barrels into the study. Words about the invading force tumbling from his lips, and Malik doesn't have to speak any more. Can lean against Aban as the world spins even faster. The Master issues orders, his voice snapping and Malik opens her eyes to know them.

"It will be done," Altair says as he turns and walks away. Malik feels his eyes scrape over her but she doesn't acknowledge him as he leaves. Her eyes fixed on the Master who waits for Altair to be gone before looking at her.

"Tell me what happened, be quick," he orders and Malik complies.

.

.

Malik wakes slowly, her mind grasping for things that slip away like smoke. Aban sits near her. His face is pale with horror and grief that focuses her more. She reaches out for his arm but feels nothing as her fingers curl shut. Aban doesn't react either. Confused she looks down.

"Malik," Aban starts but his voice is thick and his words get stuck fast.

She chokes on them herself. Her right hand scrabbling at the dirty bandages that end far sooner than her arm should. "Malik, no!"

Aban catches her hand easily and pulls it away. She tries to punch him but she has no other arm to use. Despite her mind telling her that the left is balled up into a fist, that it's flexing and striking out.

It's not though, because her left arm is _gone_.

"Malik please!" Aban holds her down as she twists with fury and horror at what has been done. Using his weight to pin her down as her body screams in renewed pain. "Stop, Malik!"

"I'll kill him!" She swears as darkness rushes over her and even Malik isn't sure who she's swearing vengeance on as Aban's voice fades.

.

.


	14. Chapter 14

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

.

* * *

.

A fever takes her and Malik only recognizes it through fleeting moments of clarity.

She recognizes faces as she runs through temples and a city that never ends. Endlessly pursued by a fire that eats at her body as she chases Kadar and is chased in turn.

Her screams echo off the walls of the infirmary. Oddly distant for all that they make those who hear her flinch. Rope bites hard into her skin as she bucks and tries to get up. To chase the fire taking her brother away, to punish it for thinking it can try to harm him.

Hamid speaks and his voice is grieving, but Malik is too busy chasing the trailing ends of Dima's headscarf through the market as the city burns. As Malik burns.

The fire consumes her alive. Flaying her flesh from her bones and stripping her throat raw until blessed darkness presses to her nose. The scent sickly sweet as it pries the fire away from her.

.

.

Her left ring finger aches from when the hidden blade cut it off. Malik has to turn her head to look at the empty space to remind herself the arm is gone. Hamid changes the bandages and she forces herself to watch.

The bandages are dirty with a mixture of salve and pus turning it a yellowish color. It peels away slowly and she sees the inflamed flesh first. The angry veins that show the low fever she still has. Black sutures come next. One from a blow she remembers but the rest snake down further as her flesh begins to twist. Hamid's fingers still before he unravels the rest to reveal her ruined arm.

The flesh and muscle have been wrapped around the bone they deliberately cut higher than her flesh. Before they sealed it shut with fire that has left it raw and blistered, and haunts her dreams with the smell of burning flesh.

"It took four men to hold you still," Aban had said when she was lucid again. His lips had twitched in the attempt of a smile that did not reach his eyes at all. "I think you've finally scared Nasir into holding his ill tongue though."

The clear fluid of a healing wound leaks out around rough sutures making the wound shine in a way that turns her stomach. It's painful but Malik clenches the hand that's not there. Fire races up from mid-bicep and Hamid is quick to scold, "Do not do that, little one. It is not there anymore and you only damage yourself."

It is healing well. She's told that every day, as they urge her to stretch out the limb. To limber up the knitting muscle and scar tissue so it doesn't grow completely unusable. The sight of her arm is a blow to that assurance they give her. She doubts, looking at it, that it ever will heal, and she wonders why she'd want it to. Why it matters anymore that she will live.

Malik is no longer an Assassin. She's of no use to the Order or her Brothers. She is lame and there is little she can do now.

"You think I don't know the direction of your thoughts, Malik?" Hamid asks, low and angry even as his hands are gentle with the bandages. When he came back to Masyaf is a mystery to her, but he has not left her side for long. "That I have not laid on this very bed with the same thoughts?"

Malik only has Kadar's -and Malik will _never_ stop feeling the stab of pain when thinking his name- words on the time after Hamid's injury. Of the dark silence he'd fallen into that the healers had feared would end him.

She doesn't answer Hamid's worries though. Her mind is still filled with the lack of her arm and she can only resent the old fool's words. A limp is _nothing_ compared to what she must deal with.

"Are you so weak and defenseless then that you'll give up here and now?" Hamid presses stubbornly as he tucks the end of the bandage away. His hands already expert at the move by now. "You are better than this, Malik."

She isn't though. There is no better from this, no recovering from losing not just a limb but her dominate hand as well. It might have been better that she dies on de Sable's sword.

"You are not one to respond to kind words or gentle understanding. They prick your pride too much," Hamid leans back on the stool only he or Aban use because there is no one else left to visit her. "Very well then, consider this: Altair lives."

"What?" The word is hoarse, the first she's spoken since the worst of the fever passed, and it jumps unchecked out of her mouth in sheer dumbfounded surprise. Hamid is lying. He has to be. The price for breaking _one_ of the tenents is death.

"The Master has decided death is not Altair's punishment for breaking the Creed. That he should instead redeem himself," Hamid continues on evenly. His eyes watching her carefully, looking for her response. "Altair has been demoted to the rank of a Novice, and must earn his redemption by killing a list of men."

Pure disbelief makes Malik speechless, makes her forget the constant pain and loss for a moment. Altair's punishment is to only do what he does best? Was the Master mad?

"He kills to well!" The shout nearly chokes her and Malik breathes through a wave of fresh pain before regulating her voice to continue. "If there's any redeeming that arrogant bastard it's to teach him to do the _opposite_."

"I agree," Hamid says with a weary tone that makes it clear he's shared this thought many times before now. In the times when he's away from her side. "But the Master has decreed it otherwise and Altair is hunting his first target as we speak."

"What use is it to keep him in the Order? He does more harm than good," and their numbers are even less now than even after the first invasion. Keeping all their Brothers together is important, but surely the Master can see that Altair will only drop their numbers further the longer he lives.

"The Master must see something worth redeeming," Hamid says unconvincingly before his face hardens. "Regardless of his reasons, it will not do to allow Altair to forget the cost of his actions. Would you lay here and shrink to nothingness, and _let_ him forget that, Malik?"

No, she won't. Malik sighs and closes her eyes as she wishes otherwise. Hamid knows her far too well

.

.

Jalal is the best doctor in the city and has tended more of Malik's wounds than she can remember receiving. His time tending to the Order has stripped him of all kindness and even the shame that the others still tend to have around her.

"Further," Jalal instructs reaching out to physically pull her ruined arm higher. The skin stretches painfully and feels close to tearing but Jalal's cloudy eyes study the movement of her arm and naked chest critically. Fingers prodding hard to feel how the muscle shifts and nodding when it meets his approval. "You will do this thrice daily. For as long as you can stand. The more you do this the looser the scars will become, and you will hardly notice the pain in time."

Malik grits her teeth and rises to her feet at his bidding. The room sways as she stands but she walks as told. Her center off in ways her mind is still dealing with. Each stumble is a failure, each time she has to brace herself on the wall a loss.

Anger burns in her slowly eating away the black thoughts that had kept her in bed. It's the same anger that propelled her from Jerusalem, the coals banked by her fever wracked dreams, but gaining heat once again. A little more fuel added every time someone is careless enough to mention Altair in her presence.

Malik pushes on grim but determined.

.

.

The Master rests his hand on her left shoulder. The inflamed flesh screams from his grip, but Malik refuses to show it. There's pride in his face as he looks down on her. "Above all else, it is your mind that has led you to rise, Malik. I refuse allow your skills to go to waste just because of _this_."

The robes are black and far softer than the white she is used to. Rafiqs don't need to survive the same abuse or danger that Assassins do, and their clothing doesn't need to be as strong.

"Jerusalem is without a good set of eyes to watch it," he continues and Malik feels her blood cool at the mention of that city. "You will elevate our Brotherhood with your knowledge, Dai."

Malik is wordless as she accepts her new position with more grace than she truly feels.

.

.

That she would be put into the ranks of the Rafiq is not a surprise to her. All Assassins too old or wounded to continue missions end there. Their knowledge passed down to the next rank of Novices. Malik has been expecting the black robes, but the leadership of a Bureau in a city as tumultuous as Jerusalem is almost unthinkable. The rank of Dai goes so far beyond even that.

"How can this work?" Malik asks Hamid as they sit on a bench. Sweat cooling on her face from the embarrassingly short distance they've traveled. Jalal's warnings to not over extend herself too badly on her first day out of the infirmary taking new weight. "I am a woman, Hamid! Here in Masyaf is the only place where that will be allowed."

The robes she has are slimmer and fit her body more closely than she's used to. Without the bulk of armor or a hood to hide behind Malik is unmistakably female. An annoyance but not a problem among the Order. She's spent the better part of her life swaying opinions with the swing of fist and the bite of her words.

Jerusalem is far from Masyaf though, and as Dai it will be her face that meets with the network of informants and allies that owe allegiance -an ever shifting thing- to the Assassins. Many of whom won't take to her very well. Especially not under the rank of Dai.

Malik has as much spirituality in her as she does feminine wiles. "I am no religious leader, Hamid. How am I expected to be a guide in that as well?"

"You will find a way, Malik, you always seem to," Hamid says patiently as he watches the movement of a pair of birds just beyond the window they face. "A Dai is not someone who blindly parrots back religious texts after all. Not one from our Order at least. Nothing is true, and it is the Dai's job to question all things. Even the word of God," Hamid chuckles lowly, and it's the first that Malik has heard the sound from the normally unfailingly cheerful man. "Whichever one that might be."

Malik clenches her hand over her knee. Fingers digging into the black cloth covering her trousers and wrinkling the fine material. "There is no god, Hamid."

"Maybe, maybe not," Hamid shrugs and slowly climbs back to his feet. "It is now one of your duties to question that, and to help any of our Brothers who might come to you with their own questions. A Dai is more than just a teacher or a scholar, Malik. They are _guides_."

"And what is the difference?" Malik finds her feet easily but keeps her steps slower than she likes.

"A scholar finds answers, a teacher turns them into lessons, but a guide finds the answers and then teaches others to find them on their own," Hamid's steps are carefully measured to fit her stride. Slower than even his limping pace as they wind further into the fortress. Still cool even though Malik sweats through the walk. "Their words tend to linger in the minds of men and last well beyond the simple facts they are taught."

It sounds pretty enough, but Malik grimaces at the thought of it. Imagining all too well the difficulty in that kind of role. "It sounds like trying to lead an ill-tempered camel to water."

Hamid's laugh is bright and full this time. Filling the hall and it makes Malik glad to hear it. "Yes, sometimes it is just like that. You will gain the hang of it though, I have faith in you."

.

.

The room is unchanged when Malik finally cannot put it off any longer.

Two beds on either side of the room that seems so much larger and emptier no than it ever did. A chest for clothing at the end of each bed, a table with a few maps and an inkpot that Malik had failed to stopper properly before leaving.

Malik brushes dried ink from her fingers and her eyes wander the painfully silent room. Sliding past that which is hers and catching on each thing that is Kadar's.

_Was_.

There's a dirtied robe lying over Kadar's chest. The travel stained clothing he'd changed out of in the few moments he'd been allowed between the two missions. Malik sinks down to her knees and reaches for it. Dirt is ingrained on one side, and small speckles of blood are dried all along the right arm.

There's a tear in the seam of the left shoulder. The thread coming loose and wrapping easily around her fingers. It's an often mended area. Malik can see the stitches that are a little clumsy, but were always better than her own work.

The gray cloth darkens slowly. Tiny circle by tiny circle until Malik bunches it in her fist and sobs into the hood. Her tears soaking into it.

.

.


	15. Chapter 15

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

.

* * *

.

"I will miss you," Aban says as he checks and rechecks the bag he insisted on packing himself. It is mostly clothing with some pots of ink that Malik doesn't know the source of. His insistence had annoyed her -Aban has taken to jumping to do things for her the moment he realizes what she's trying to do- but he's limited himself to the one bag, and his hands move about it almost obsessively. "You do not know how boring it will become without you here, Malik."

"You act as if you'll never see me again," Malik packs her sword, and all the weapons that she's determined she will not lose the use of. "With the way missions have been going you'll see me more in Jerusalem than you have here."

"True," Aban chuckles as he forces himself back from the bag with effort that she can see on his face. His hands clench and unclench as he looks around the nearly empty room. The extra bed and furniture gone, and the rest to follow soon enough. Two crates of things she will not take rests by the door. One will go to Aban's family, the other to the armory. "It will not feel that way though. Not when I am here and need a sanctuary from my home, and mother's insistence that I marry."

"Poor Aban," Malik mocks gently even as she already misses that. Aban has made a point of not coming to the room to see her, and from the way his eyes keep going to the side of the room that's been empty for weeks she knows why. Aban had always wanted a brother, and Kadar had been that for him to a degree. "You'll have to actually start listening to her for once, or maybe you could take your refuge in the library. Actually learn something for once."

"But Malik!" Aban gasps, turning to her fully with an overdone stricken look on his face. "What will happen to me if word of it gets out and people begin to see me as more than my handsome face? I'll be expected to do more than just warm someone's bed, they might actually want to _talk_ to me."

The throwing knife balances easily in her hand, and it takes only a little effort for her to flick it his way. The throw is off but Aban's laughter as he jumps back anyway fills the room that has been silent for too long.

.

.

"We lost the Bureau in Tyre," Hamid admits on the trip to Jerusalem. They're bundled up in the back of a caravan like the invalids they are, but Malik doesn't protest the treatment for once. The nightmarish blur of her flight from the city is still too fresh in her mind, and she cannot know how she will react to seeing some part of it she recognizes so soon. She has little enough time to prepare herself for the city as it is.

"How?" Malik asks because it hadn't occurred to her that the second invasion of Masyaf wasn't enough of a reason to call the man back.

"I was unaware that the Rafiq I replaced was a lazy man, given to meeting all of his informants in the Bureau itself," Hamid shakes his head grimly, and Malik grimaces at the thought of that sanctuary being used by those not of the Order. Thinks of all the times she had rested there, lowered her guard, and felt safe in the knowledge that none but her Brothers had access to it. All lies apparently. "All it took was one of them becoming acquainted with the Crusader's brand of torture to sell us all out. I had ample warning to move out, but the building itself was lost to us. The Master is unsure if it is worth the manpower to rebuild there at this point."

The last report received from the Jerusalem Bureau spoke of a need to relocate as well. Carelessness seems to be losing the Order too much. "Is this what is happening in Jerusalem as well then?"

"No, I don't believe so," Hamid says after a moment of thought. "Mufid is like us, promoted from the ranks of Assassins. He knows all too well the dangers of being lazy and the importance of security. I doubt this move is anything to do with him."

Malik settles back against a crate of cloth and wonders if that is true. She remembers the Dai of Jerusalem but does not truly know him which means little these days. Too often of late those who Malik thought would never do something have proven her wrong. There have been too many traitors in the Order. She keeps her peace for the moment though. Their answers will only come when they reach the city itself.

.

.

Mufid is a sharp eyed man with a twisting scar that runs under a cloth that covers his right eye. He's loud as he commands the Assassins moving crates and baskets from the Bureau. An onerous task given each has to be taken up the roof right under the noses of the Crusaders making their home in the building adjacent to the Bureau.

"I would believe myself cursed if I even believed in such things," Mufid grumbles as he slowly lowers himself to sit by them. His bones are old and the move is slow and stumbling. "They took over the building by force last week, they are few but the guards allow them to stay for some reason. Bribery perhaps."

"Salah ad-Din turns a blind eye then?" Hamid asks incredulously.

"No, they come in secret and once inside the city it matters not what they do. He is far too busy leading his armies away from the city, and those who watch in his absence have suspect motives," Mufid turns to Malik and nods to the men working. "They move everything to a new building so that is not something you will have to arrange. It may be best that you are taking over now. It will be easier to show you all that is available as it comes out of the crates. Once it is all out things have a tendency to wander and go missing."

Malik thinks to Aban who has a tendency to riffle through the scrolls and chests of each Bureau, especially when the Rafiq is turned away and suppresses a grin. "Indeed, just as some Assassins seem to mistake a roll of bread with rotted fish when packing for their return journey to Masyaf."

"Novices and newly promoted Assassins are especially bad at that," Hamid says gravely while Mufid openly smirks. "You will want to keep a subtle eye on them when they come to you for guidance."

"And a few dulled throwing knives for the ones too stupid to try being subtle themselves," Mufid adds and one of the men nearby snorts loudly. "Laugh all you want, you learned how to better sneak around rather quickly after the first few found your head Asif!"

"Is there nothing we can do with this building?" Malik asks, ignoring the laughter. Her mind still on the wall that separates them from their enemy. "It seems too good of an advantage to give up so easily."

"They grow curious by the day. They see no entrance or windows and that curiosity will turn to suspicion soon," Mufid responds. He waves up toward the ceiling entrance, "They will find that shortly after and I would rather not have all our knowledge and plans available to them."

"I don't disagree," Malik says, her mind turning over different ideas. "But if it's inevitable as you say, then I think it might also be inevitable that they take the building for themselves when they find it empty."

"Most likely," Mufid agrees and then waits. His one eye fixed on her, waiting to see what she'll say next.

_Guides_, Hamid had said and Malik supposes she shouldn't be so surprised.

They could fill the building with traps, make the Crusaders pay dearly for their greed and curiosity. They could leave a message for them to ensure they not think themselves unwatched despite the permissiveness of the city guard. They could do any number of things to harm the Crusaders, but Malik is a Dai now. She cannot leave the city to avoid a situation she creates. She must live with it.

"How much trouble would it be to add secret doors?" Malik asks as she settles on one idea, because she doesn't know the situation in regards to builders. Her knowledge has always dealt strictly with her targets and little else. "Perhaps to build a room in the walls to spy on them from."

"Quite a bit of trouble. Especially with them already near. The money to pay for material and very discrete labor is unbelievable, but," Mufid nods to Asif who has come back for another crate. The man abandons the scrolls he was going for and steps up to a rather unremarkable portion of the wall between the two main rooms of the building. Malik does not see what Asif does but a small section swings in on silent hinges.

Malik gets to her feet and inspects it. The space is small and tight with a trap door that leads down into even more darkness. Light filters into the room from small holes in the wall. Placed on all sides but she can see they will be almost impossible to notice from the outside without knowing they're there first.

"It locks from the inside, and the exit leads out into a cistern," Mufid's voice carries as she lifts the trap to inspect the ladder leading down. "Only one person can fit the room comfortably, but many can enter through it if the need arises."

The _if_ sounds like a _when_ to Malik's ears and she smiles as she draws back to sit with the Dai and Hamid.

.

.

Malik spends her nights with Hamid learning the new Bureau's inventory and the most efficient ways to deal with the steady stream of Brothers coming in. Most Assassins but many not. She learns to keep records, pen precise messages in code, and the especially dull business of managing the money and supplies the sanctuary keeps.

By day she dons women's clothing and follows Mufid around the city as the old man shows her his network. The thieves that can be trusted, the ones that can't, and the ones who will do anything for a coin. She meets merchants and whores, mercenaries and scholars. Some give her the respect her title deserves, but many don't even give her the respect deserved for her gender.

"They have their uses," Mufid says evenly as they walk away from a still sneering thug. The man taller and broader than the both of them put together, but with a head so inflated a little prick from Malik's dagger would collapse him utterly. Mufid had dragged her away with a surprisingly strong grip before the thought even had time to fully enter her mind. "There is always something that those kind would hold over you. That you are a woman is only the easiest thing for them to grasp. Do not give them the satisfaction of your temper, Malik. It makes them think they are in control when it is you that they will answer to."

"Sometimes," Hamid agrees later over a light meal after they've finished organizing the small library that comes with her position. Most of the texts are practical, but there are a few that seem too out of place for her to believe they truly came from Mufid. "Having them as a sneering ally is better than as an enemy, but there will be times when it's best to remind them of what you truly are."

"And how would I even know which time is which?" Malik is growing frustrated. Her position is less confrontational than she likes, and her old tactics of beating the respect out of others is not going to work. Especially not with her still healing arm to contend with. "This is not anything I was trained for Hamid. There is no clear objective, no single action to take to complete my mission."

"You will figure it out on your own. I have faith in you," Hamid settles back in the cushions and stares up through the open grate at the night sky, a smile tugging his lips upward. "Your objective is to make every mission as clear as possible for those coming to you so that they do not foul up. You must take every action possible so that the boys and brash men that come to you for a feather will only need to worry their heads over the best angle to attack. That is the job of a Rafiq. Everything else is just a means of accomplishing this."

Malik lays down on her right side, the left still too sensitive to even lay flat on her back. "You say that as if I never did my own reconnaissance."

"That's the secret, Malik," Hamid laughs softly and the light they'd been eating by gutters out with a heavy exhale. "You never noticed all the work being done for you."

.

.

The grave is inconspicuous and looks no different from the hundreds of others in the cemetery.

"I thought it best," the Mufid says simply before leaving her to Kadar's grave. His body recovered by some means she doesn't know of. The ground almost smooth again by now, and the carved stone gathering a patina of dirt that dulls it like the rest of the graves.

Malik crouches over the stone slab and the words blur before her eyes. She stays still and unashamed in this grief until they've run their course. Malik wipes her face and presses the last tears into the engraved flow of Kadar's name. When she speaks it's a promises she says, "These will be the last, little brother."

Malik has a Bureau to run, an enemy to fight, and their Brothers to aide. Kadar's memory will always be honored by her, but she no longer has the time for tears.

.

.


	16. Chapter 16

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

.

* * *

.

Becoming a Dai is not easy, but very little in Malik's life has been easy. She adjusts to the change rather well. She worked hard to gain her white robes, and she will work just as hard to deserve the black she now wears.

"No need to get lazy," Hamid says one day as he throws a heavy sword at her. Malik barely catches it before it does something unfortunate to the maps she's been studying. "It is time we teach that hand of yours how to properly hold one of these."

"And do what?" Malik asks even as she gets up and follows him into the courtyard. The sword is a welcome weight in her hand, but she knows all too well how much of a disadvantage she's at with it. She nods at the sword Hamid carries as well. "Hit myself in the face with the flat of it when I block?"

"If you want to, then by all means, block," Hamid says with a smile as he brings his sword up. "Think, Malik! You fought very well using only one hand before."

Malik brings her sword up and grunts as Hamid's strike -towards the tip of her sword- smacks it painfully into her ribs. The strength of her one off hand not enough to keep the blade straight and firm. "You say that as if blocking is not instinctive!"

"Instinct can be changed," Hamid says as he lashes out again. Malik lets this blow slide off her angled blade as she steps out of its path. "You just have to train your body to accept the new instinct."

Malik growls as Hamid aims a heavy overhand swing at her. The urge to bring her sword up to block it is nearly unbearable, but she steps back instead. Letting it go wide.

Hamid is right. He usually is. Malik has been putting off her training. Doing only the bare minimum of stretching of her injured arm, and not doing anything to recover the rest of her body. It's rather disgraceful.

"Good, you are ready," Hamid states, no hint of a question at all in his voice.

She grits her teeth and nods.

.

.

Malik wipes spit off her face with fingers that shake.

Mufid is silent next to her. His eye far away and face lined with deep wrinkles as they walk back to the Bureau.

"It is easy to forget the realities of the world at times when you spend so much time wrapped up in the Order's affairs," the old man finally says as Malik's jaw begins to ache from the fury she wants to release. "I've just had to remind myself that your inclusion in the Order is new. That the respect you command is only seen by our Brothers."

Malik tries to say something. Opens her mouth but only hissed air comes out before she shuts it with a snap. Anger licks so hotly in her that he left arm aches to lash out. She's a Dai now, Malik reminds herself, and such reactions should be below her.

"I fear I've made a mistake, Dai," Mufid says as they make their way up a ladder near the Bureau. Malik moving as slowly as the older man because climbing is another thing she has neglected to grow used to again. "I'd hoped the respect and fear of the Order would aide you more with the informants, but that is obviously not going to happen."

That was readily apparent to her the second day of her tutelage, but Mufid's assurances had stayed her tongue and one fist from lashing out the way she wanted to.

He reaches the roof first and doesn't offer Malik a hand up the rest of the ladder. "I am afraid that is something you will have to figure out for yourself. I have no thoughts on how to change it."

"I will find a way," Malik replies with confidence she doesn't really feel as she walks over to the entrance. The cool interior welcoming after the day of almost fruitless meetings. "Somehow."

.

.

"Is it true?" Asif asks one morning.

The man spends his time evenly divided between the scholars and Malik. Doing what is required of him by them both though Malik's word is superior to the scholars' in Jerusalem. She doesn't tell him when to make his divide in time though, not yet, and Asif has taken to spending his mornings in the Bureau.

Malik ignores his question for the moment and finishes the five lifts she has left. Her arm aches with the strain of lifting her body up, but it has to do the work of two now and Malik forces every last bit of strength she can out of it before dropping to the ground. The courtyard is cool against her heated skin as she sends a narrowed look at the man hovering in the doorway. "Nothing is true, Asif. You'll have to be more specific if you want me to tell _why_."

"Sorry, Dai," Asif mumbles and suddenly looks like he wants to be elsewhere very badly. Malik snorts and gets to her feet in a single move that is more work than she lets on.

"Out with it Asif. It will only bother us both if you keep your questions to yourself now," Malik walks into the next room. The cloth of her shirt clings to her with sweat, and her left arm aches in a way that lets her know she'll have to change the bandages soon.

"One of the Brothers who came through yesterday. He said Altair is a traitor," Asif says in one single breath when her back is to him.

Malik doesn't tense. She doesn't rant or rave or anything of the sort. Her teeth ache from a reflexive clench that happens when she hears that name, but nothing else.

Malik is quite proud of herself for that.

"Altair has broken the Creed," Malik intones in a lecturing voice she picked up from Hamid. "All of it. He is no traitor though," the admission she doesn't believe almost sticks to her tongue but she continues regardless. "His arrogance is being punished in a way that has been determined to best rectify his failings. That is all."

"But," Malik can _feel_ the stare at her left side without looking. She busies herself with a basin of water, but Asif doesn't say anything else. Malik remembers the younger man in his days as a Novice. A good fighter but not particularly bright.

"The Master has willed it thus, Asif," Malik pours a handful of water down her throat before wiping her wet hand over her flushed face. "Do not question him. Take heed that you follow the Creed though. I doubt the Master would ever be so merciful twice."

Asif stammers, horrified that she might think he questioned the Master. Malik grimaces where he can't see and resolves to work on her delivery more. Asif might be a little dull, but the rest of the Brotherhood is not and one _will_ see through that lie eventually if she's not careful.

.

.

She's running the Bureau fully by herself when Hamid leaves with Mufid. Their presence and knowledge sorely needed by the Master as the rank of the Order fails to fill as quickly as they'd hoped. She has it down, mostly. The work she does with the Assassins that come in is familiar to her from the other side. She knows what to expect, and how to make things flow as well as possible for the Brothers who come for their target.

It is during the day, when all Assassins tend to stay out of sight, that Malik struggles out of her robes and into the women's clothing she now owns multiples of. The ties and sashes complicated with only her right hand to use, and not made any easier by the fake arm Hamid had presented her with before leaving.

"Your role is difficult as it is," he'd said as she examined the wooden shape and belts. "There is no need to draw more attention than needed to yourself than you already will. Just because you are Dai does not mean you do not need to be able to blend."

The arm attaches to her shoulder and waist. It's painful against the stump of her arm and she pads it as much as possible before putting it on and through the arm of her clothing. The arm is crooked, allowing her to slide a basket onto it before tying the sash around the hand area to her waist. Properly covered it draws no attention at all, and allows her to make full use of her right hand without having to worry about dropping what she might be carrying.

Malik only ever uses it when she must blend in though. Useful as it is, wearing it otherwise seems like giving up. Malik wears it when she needs to get something from the market and cannot trust the assistants she is sent to do it for her. They're always young, the age when stupidity starts to take strange turns in boys, and half the time she's certain her words get lost in their heads.

Mufid hadn't left her his dulled throwing knives, and dulling her own so that they are painful and not deadly is a surprisingly slow task with one hand. They have a while yet before they learn the consequences of not paying attention when she speaks.

Malik wears the arm when she goes out to meet with informants. Respectful or not, she meets them all out in public. The hard hilts of the set of knives she is keeping purposefully sharp pressing into her stomach from the brace she's modified to fit on the inside of her basket. A secret warning that none of her informants have needed to be shown to them. Yet.

Though that changes quickly.

Malik is a week from being on her own when she finds out she was lied to by one informant. It's a lie that almost cost one of the two Assassins assigned permanent posts in the city his life. Asif will heal, but Malik decides that her informant has lost his usefulness as she washes Asif's blood from her hand.

Gamal -and she neither knows nor cares if he is the same Gamal she knew so long ago- has openly sneered at her, and his disrespect is showing in his lack of care with the things he's told her are true with a mocking smile. He runs a gang of tough men in one of the rougher parts of the poor district, and that is where Malik heads to as she leaves the Bureau.

The robes of the Dai are light over the outer white robe she pulled on for the familiar hood to shield her face. The left arm is pinned up, unmistakably high to show her lack of arm. Her figure is recognizable, as will be her voice, but only to those who already know of her. It's enough anonymity for the very public act she needs to commit.

.

.

The first thug that rises to his feet goes down hard when she kicks him hard in the face. His nose crunching almost loud enough to cover the bellows of rage from the other four men gathered in a too dark shack.

The second obliges her by charging from the right and running straight into her fist. It takes three hard punches before his eyes roll back into his head and he's down.

The third and fourth are more sober and wary as they draw their swords. Their eyes taking in her figure and empty sleeve with a sneer. Malik faces them calmly, tilting her head so that all they can see is the set line of her mouth. Her sword is attached to a belt at her waist, and under the robe. It hisses out of its sheath with a sound that makes them tense.

"Your life is not the one I'm after tonight," Malik says, evenly but with all the menace she can drag into it. Her sword is awkward still, but their forms are clumsy and she doubts they can see that in her. "Leave and I'll spare it. Oppose me and you will die screaming."

They twitch, considering, and the one on the left lunges for her. It's pathetically easy to step aside and run him through the gut in one motion. She almost loses the sword, but manages to keep it and bring it up to the one on the right as his companion writhes on the floor. His stomach torn open and intestines spilling out.

"Well?" Malik angle the sword to the left, allowing the little light there is to reflect off the black stain of blood.

Intelligence always wins out when a group of men is suddenly reduced to a single person. Malik watches the last man run and thinks it good that someone will live to actually spread the rumors she'll be sending out in the morning.

She slices downward. Catching the neck of the man she ran through and ending his life quickly now that she doesn't need him to make a point. The first two thugs don't move at the cessation of the screams and Malik leaves them alone as she pushes into the only other room.

Gamal is drunk, and that's a disappointment. Malik had wanted the man to understand the severity of his actions, but she's unwilling to wait for him to sober up. He'll end up dead either way, and it's the message that his death will send that she's truly after.

Malik stands over the fool's insensate form and considers her options as he bleeds out from a slit throat he never even felt.

Such and obvious and clean death is one of the more heavily favored tactics for the Order, but that is when the Master wants to emphasize how truly faceless they can be. Malik _is_ the face of the order as far as Jerusalem is concerned. She only gains from this death by having it connected to her, by the fact that she did it with her own hands.

Malik wipes her sword clean on the filthy blankets before sheathing it and taking out her dagger. She works quickly before Gamal's blood has time to cool and become thick. She cannot make her informants respect her in the manner she's accustomed to, but she can damn well make sure they _fear_ her.

.

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	17. Chapter 17

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

.

It works.

Rumor spreads like fire through the city about the Assassin in black, and while she is never mentioned in any way that is identifying those she deals with _know_. Wariness enters her dealings with informants now. Not all of them believe everything flying around, but they also know enough to not dismiss it completely.

The whores take particular delight in telling the rumors. They add gristly embellishments that only get a boost from the guards who had found the mess Malik left behind. Jerusalem is on high alert for nearly a week but the vigilance dies down eventually. The city guards unable to maintain it for very long.

Malik gives nothing away when the questions inevitably start. Simply allows her face to remain inscrutable as she completes her business. Gathering her information before returning to the Bureau.

Asif recovers quickly and Assassins come and go in a steady stream. Some of them look on her with pity, others with respect. It's a start, and she's determined to make it work.

.

.

"Safety and peace, Malik."

Malik has been expecting it. The missive had come two days earlier telling her to expect Altair soon. Those two days have been spent alternately contemplating the Creed and her oaths, and the ease at which she could set a trap to hurl knives at the Bureau entrance.

The Creed had won out unfortunately.

Malik has been expecting Altair, has been mentally preparing herself for it, but finds all her careful preparations wasted as rage flows through her at the first words. The quill she holds shuddering as her fingers tighten, a thick drop of ink splashing onto the wood of her desk. She takes a breath and forces herself to focus on her task at hand, outlining a new building on the map of the city with thick lines of ink. Not looking up as she snaps, "Your presence here deprives me of both. What do you want?"

"Al Mualim has asked-" Altair pauses, the words in his mouth stuttering to an abrupt stop, and in that instant she knows that no one had told him.

She looks up from the map and he is staring. His face is utterly impassive, but his eyes are fixed. Surprise, disbelief, anger, _pity_. Malik reads it all in his eyes. Just as she has read it in the eyes of every other Assassin to walk through her Bureau in the past month. It's hard enough to accept coming from men who had once respected her skills, it's unbearable coming from the man who is the cause of it.

"Asked that you perform some menial task to redeem yourself," anger makes her words fittingly sharp, making it clear what she thinks of the _redemption_ being offered by the Master. Her words more honest to Altair than they have been to the few Assassins who have brought the matter up with her. Malik doesn't have to hide her anger from Altair.

She does not hide the deformity, does not turn her empty sleeve away from his gaze though she dearly wants to cut out his eyes for staring so obviously. "So be out with it!"

The tone of her voice is sharp enough to snap Altair out of his daze. His eyes go as blank as his face once more and it's like a statue of a man stands before her. "Tell me what you can about the one they call Talal."

"It is your duty to locate and assassinate the man, Altair," his duty and his penance. Malik does not like to question the Master, but she can admit to herself that she still sees no point in making Altair learn through killing. The man was too good at it. "Not mine."

Altair's lips thin and there's a hint of a threat to hid voice, "You do well to assist me, his death benefits us all."

"Do you deny his death benefits you as well?" Malik allows herself to smirk. Getting such a snappy reaction out of Altair is rare.

"Such things do not concern me," Altair says after a pause, and Malik wants to hurt him for the lie.

She leans over the desk and slams her fist down just beyond the still wet map. Her ink pot rattles but the sound doesn't faze her. "Your actions _very much_ concern me!"

"Then do not help me!" Altair snaps right back. Anger melting across his face in an all too familiar wave. "I'll find him myself!"

Altair whirls around and strides out to the courtyard, and its entrance. Malik thinks about letting him go. To get his fool ass killed, but sense speaks up and it sounds like Hamid berating her.

"Wait! Wait," Malik reminds herself of the Creed, and bites back the rest of the words she wants to say. "It won't do having you stomp around the city like a blind man. Better you know where to begin your search."

Altair pauses before slowly, reluctantly turning back around. His head is angled down and the hood covers all but his scared mouth. "I'm listening."

Malik straightens out the map she's been perfecting and nods down to it. Altair drifts close enough to see, but only barely. "I can think of three places," she points them out to the man, explaining their position in simple, short words. Pulling her knowledge from rumor and the reports of kidnappings she's been receiving all over the poor district. Hopefully the direction will ensure Altair doesn't do his usual horrible job at not drawing attention to himself.

"Is that everything?" Altair asks when he's done with the map.

"It's enough to get you started," Malik pushes the map out of the way and leans against the wood, locking eyes with the shadows of his hood, "and more than you deserve."

Altair stands there saying nothing. An odd tension radiates off of him and it takes Malik several seconds to place it as unease. An undoubtedly unfamiliar emotion to Altair. Malik wants to laugh at the thought, but knows that if she does she would not stop. Would not be able to stop from throwing every bit of her anger and her rage at him until the only option left her is to kill him.

She won't allow that. Altair has taken her brother, her arm, and her position away from her. Malik will not allow him to take the Order from her as well. Though no Brother would blame her for taking his life, she would be stooping to his level for her own revenge. Breaking the Creed.

Just like he did.

"_Go_," Malik doesn't drop her gaze or turn away from him as she hisses the order. Refusing to be the one to retreat. "And do not darken my presence until you are ready to complete your mission."

Altair does not flinch but he fades away so quickly she almost fancies he's running.

.

.

In too short a time, he's back. "Malik."

"Come to waste more of my time?" Malik pushes the reports she isn't actually paying attention to away from her and looks up to find Altair framed in the doorway. The tips of his boots stopping just before it.

"I've found Talal," Altair strides in as if he were only waiting for her attention before approaching the desk. "I'm ready to begin my mission."

"That," Malik says with no hidden satisfaction, "is for me to decide."

The letter from the Master to Mufid had been very explicit in what was expected of Altair. The lessons are so basic even the youngest Novice would know them. It must burn Altair's pride like nothing else to have his plans and actions need approval.

"Very well!" Altair's voice is tight and Malik smirks at him. It makes his words sharp as he tells her a location that she had not considered when looking into the man. "As we speak he prepares a caravan for travel. I'll strike while he's inspecting his stock," human lives, and the brief reminder of the innocents this man has harmed drains some of the smugness from Malik. "If I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove little challenge."

"Little challenge?!" Malik slams her fist onto the counter again and ignores the rattle of bottles as she listens to the arrogance still pouring out of the fool's mouth. All thought of those people being sold fading. "Listen to you! Such arrogance! Have you learned _nothing_?"

"Are we finished? Are you satisfied with what I've learned?" Altair's mouth is set in annoyance and Malik doesn't care that his mouth doesn't open to let them spill out the way they used to. That he's not giving her enough to latch onto and tear him apart the way she wants to.

"No," Malik spits out and reaches for the feather marker sent to her. She slaps it onto the counter and thinks about embedding it in one of the eyes that haven't looked at her once since his return. "But it will have to do. Rest, prepare, cry in the corner," Malik turns away from the man and returns to her reports and maps. "Do whatever it is you do before a mission. But make sure you do it quietly."

Malik doesn't want to be reminded that he's even there.

.

.

The ringing of the bells does not surprise Malik in the least. She's prepared for that as well. Informed all of her people to stay inside, and avoid wearing white if at all possible until Altair clears out of the city. There's no reason for her men to be harmed for his idiocy.

She sees the shadow before Altair drops into the courtyard. His robes a little darker from what must have been a citywide chase. There's a fine mist of red along one side, and Malik doesn't really care if it's his or not.

"Altair!" The man stiffens at her cheerful greeting and turns slowly towards her. He goes almost dead still upon seeing her smile. "Wonderful to see you return to us! And, how fared the mission?"

"The deed is done," Altair answers slowly as he steps in out of the courtyard. Slow and measured like one would use when approaching a wounded animal. A red stained feather is pulled out and held before him. "Talal is dead."

"Oh, I know, I know," Malik ignores the feather and her smile turns every bit as feral as he is treating her. Her teeth actually ache to sink into the flesh of the hand laying the feather down. "In fact, the entire city knows! Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?!"

Malik knows it's fruitless. Altair never knew the meaning of the word even before when they were both novices.

"A skilled Assassin ensures his work is noticed by the many," Altair says like he's reciting something, and Malik wants to scream.

"No!" Malik cuts her hand through the air between them because she's been to the same lessons Altair has, she knows what was taught and his twisting of those lessons is not something she will let go by without remark. "A skilled Assassin maintains control of his environment and is never noticed!"

"We can argue the details all you want, Malik," Altair says with impatience. Arms crossing over his chest and body angling away from the desk toward the exit. "The fact remains, I've accomplished the task set to me by Al Mualim."

He has, and that is what upsets her most about this fruitless series of tasks. It's a checklist of death, and Altair doesn't seem to be learning anything from it. Not from where Malik is standing. With him all but _pouting_, as if she is the one at fault.

"Go then," Malik turns away from the child pretending to be a man and reaches for the ledgers and paper she will need to record this mission. "Return to the old man. Let us see with whom he sides."

It's a bitter thought though, Malik knows by now who the Master will side with in this matter, and it is not her.

"You and I are on the same side, Malik," Altair says, soft but with some anger still banked behind the words.

"No, Altair, you have only ever been on _your_ side. No one else's," Malik says even though she knows the words won't register. Altair's ears are dead to any words but the ones he chooses to listen to.

.

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	18. Chapter 18

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

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"How does it feel to live the luxurious life of a Dai?"

Malik closes the book she's been reading and flicks one of her dulled knives toward the doorway before looking up. Aban catches it easily and Malik is pleased to see that it would have glance against his right temple if he hadn't caught it. Her aim is improving greatly. She has her assistants to thank for that.

"Boring," Malik rises and steps up to clasp Aban on the shoulder. Shaking his shoulder slightly as she grins at her friend. "The gates gave you no trouble I hope."

"No trouble at all. The scholars waiting at the gates are your doing, yes?"

"Yes, too many Novices are allowed out alone these days," Malik says as she leads him further in. The food she orders brought in has been sitting for too long as she was absorbed in the book, and she offers some to Aban. "I've had problems with the idiots trying to climb the walls to get into the city. In the middle of the day! It is easier, for my own peace of mind, to make the correct way to enter as obvious as I can."

"Novices," Aban smiles but there's a weariness to it that drags his shoulders down. "They have me teaching them now."

"God forbid, the Order is doomed!" Malik cries out and laughs when it gets her a chunk of bread to the face. She snatches it before it can fall to the floor because the baker she prefers is a wonder. "What do you teach them? The best way to extract yourself from a sleeping lover without waking them? Ways to talk an angry father out of slitting their throats when they fall asleep?"

"Those are all valid skills, Malik," Aban says haughtily. "And do not tell me that they would not translate very well to other aspects of their lives."

Malik will give him that one. She knows of very few others as good at getting into and out of places as Aban. Clearly his nights spent sneaking into the almost fortress like rooms of the daughters of paranoid men have some use. "What brings you here though?"

"I'm here for the observations of the Crusaders you've promised the Master."

"Oh?" The Crusaders had taken over the empty Bureau as expected, and added it to their holdings in the city. Malik has the reports ready for taking, her men having painstakingly recorded what they learned over the past weeks. "Taking honest work from Novices, Aban? So I am not the only one suffering from boredom."

"Acre is spoiling with men who need to be removed. We send too many of our Brothers there, and all we have left in Masyaf are the newest of Novices. I cannot, in good consciousness, allow any of them to even think about leaving. They would not even notice the scholars waiting for them at the gate."

Malik frowns because it is unlike the Master to leave Masyaf so vulnerable. Not so soon after their last siege. She has heard from Acre though. Both from the Rafiq stationed there and the rumors that come into Jerusalem with the merchants. Sickness spreads fast in the city, almost faster than the dead can be buried. Jabal's accounts are horrific to read for all that they are short and to the point.

"I have heard," Aban breaks her out of her thoughts as his voice bleeds dry of all emotion. His face is still but eyes watchful. "I have heard that Altair was just here."

The bread turns to ash on her tongue and Malik swallows heavily. "He was, yes. He finished his mission and left the city a mess. As usual."

"And that is all?" Aban asks, her words obviously not enough for him.

"Altair is Altair," Malik sits back and allows herself this moment. Aban knows her best perhaps and try as she might he will read her. "Regardless of how far he is demoted, he will always remain an arrogant ass. I see little in him even now that is worth our Master's mercy."

"Your opinion is shared by many in the Brotherhood," Aban says grimly. "There are few who speak up in defense of him. You'd be surprised I think at how many of our Brothers feel the need to take matters into their own hands under your name."

"What?" Malik feels shock and a slow dismay. She has spent so long holding herself back from acting, and the thought of anyone else _not_ doing the same is enough to make a curl of anger burn in her. The thought of someone else taking the matter up _for_ her, as if she is completely helpless to do the same herself, ignites it. "Do they think me so lame I cannot take my own vengeance?"

"I did not say their talk was very intelligent," Aban admits with an easy smile. "Only that they talk of it. I doubt very much any of them would have the courage to try. I am surprised though that your visit from Altair does not seem to have ended in more bloodshed than was called for."

"I follow the Creed, Aban," Malik reminds him in a tight voice. "I will not be the one to break it. Though I will admit I thought hard on it."

"Good," Aban says with obvious satisfaction and then leans back. His voice turning lighter as he turns to lighter topics. "Now, tell me exactly how many men you've terrified into listening you."

.

.

Jabal's next message comes with news of Altair that Malik ignores for the information uncovered with the death of the knight Garnier. That Talal had been selling civilians had been a fact that Malik had not thought to question further until now. It irritates her to no end now to find that the dead man had not simply been selling them, but actually sending them to the hands of such a sick man.

The details are sparse but speak loudly when she puts them against the reports the Rafiq has been circulating regularly. The very words themselves are slightly off. The ink lines Jabal takes such pride in making reflecting his emotion as he writes about the recovered victims in a way they hadn't when he wrote about the latest executions just the previous week.

Acre suffers greatly under foreign hands, and Malik finds little to fault the Master with at his pouring of resources into the city.

.

.

The bandages are unnecessary now. The skin on the stump of her arm has healed enough that it no longer breaks open no matter how she moves it. Malik keeps them though for the padding. The scared skin is sensitive in a way she cannot quite handle. The slightest brush of cloth against it makes her hiss in the mornings when she wraps the arm with soft bandages until the skin becomes used to the touch and no longer bothers her. The intermittent brush of her sleeve against it without that barrier is unbearable.

The arm was removed above the elbow, but it might as well have been taken at the shoulder for all the use the remnants are to her. The flesh is uneven and Malik looks at it as little as she can get away with most days. She can move it but only in very limited ways. The damaged muscle not enough to give her the full range of her right arm. She focuses instead on what she has left.

Climbing is the hardest thing for her to relearn. She still wants to reach out with her left when she feels herself slipping, and it takes work to make sure her right gains the strength it needs to do the work of two. Climbing in and out of the Bureau daily helps her relearn how to balance her weight. The way she needs to rely on her legs more than she's accustomed to. It also helps her relearn how to run across the roof tops. Leaping from building to building, using the outcroppings and overhangs to aide her. She slips often at first and her right hand grows raw before growing harder.

"The Dai is strong," she overhears Asif telling some wide eyed Novices just before returning from a run. "If anyone needs help it is those who make an enemy of her."

Her informants are coming around. A few more reminders of who and what they deal with enough to allow her to give them more reasons to work with her. Her men save the daughters of powerful men, and the wives of those with influence from the city guard that grow bolder under the increasingly bold eyes of Majd Addin. The man runs the city in Salahuddin's absence. The guards reporting to him, and taking both their orders and money from him. Even the Crusaders seem to hold him in some regard. The secrets her spies gain her some mention of the man's name. Though nothing of real substance. Malik forwards it all to the Master and manages her Bureau with an ease that increases with each day.

.

.

Zafir writes infrequently. The Rafiq of Damascus is new to his position as well, but Malik remembers him well from his days in the library of Masyaf. Studying under the older Rafiqs and Dais in a variety of things. His letters often have the powdered remnants of clay clinging to them, and she receives most of her missives from him stuffed inside a carefully packed and delivered pot. Small, expertly crafted things normally, useful for the salves she uses far too often.

The few that survive her anger that is.

Zafir is either a stupid man or one with very little tact. It is the only reason she has for why the man writes to her about _forgiving_. His praise of Altair as an example of a fine Assassin making the shattering of the clay pot only mildly satisfying. The letters she sends back to the Rafiq are sharp as she informs him to mind his own business in the matter though it does little enough good.

Asif wisely says nothing and makes sure to keep these letters from her if other Brothers are staying in the Bureau. Malik has a hard enough time reminding the ones —growing bolder and more vocal— who dislike Altair that they too are bound to the Creed.

All of Malik's knowledge of Altair's movement comes second hand. She hears of the fall of the merchant supplying weapons to the Crusaders. Jabal is all but glowing when he tells of the death of William of Montferrat, of the way things change almost instantly in Acre. The Crusaders growing wary and too fearful to carry on with the mass slaughters.

"Most still revile him," Aban says when next he comes through, a feather dipped in red his goal this time. He spends his time resting with her in the Bureau instead of any of the many lovers she's sure he has in the city. "Abbas is the most vocal. He's almost rabid with it too, and his words verge on treason against the Master," Aban grimaces and Malik snorts at the thought of it. Abbas is a fool who lets his grudge with Altair rule him. No matter how justified it may or may not be, there's no excuse for the lengths the man goes to. "More and more there are those who don't revile Altair though. They believe his redemption sincere."

Malik scoffs at the thought. "His willingness to kill does not make him any more or less than the impatient Novice he is. I've seen and heard very little to make me believe otherwise."

"I agree, but I am only telling you what I hear," Aban says before changing the subject as he fills her in with every single rumor she has missed and not cared about.

.

.

Majd Addin becomes a far more prominent threat all too soon.

"There is no way to get in, Dai," Latif apologizes as she sews a gash on his side. The bone of his ribs exposed but the only thing that had saved his life. His robe is stained with his blood and the blood of the guards he had tried fighting. "Not even the cisterns go in, and the guards are too thick to get through without being seen."

"Be at ease. It is not your fault, Brother," Malik finishes the sewing and instructs Kaseem to finish binding his wounds. The boy does not hesitate and Malik knows she will have to send him to the Rafiqs in Masyaf soon. He is getting near to learning all he can from her and the scholars of the city. "You are sure though that Asif lives?"

"Yes," Latif grimaces but holds still for Kassem's hands. "I could hear him inside the prison before we had to turn away or lose our lives."

"And you made the right choice," Malik soothes the guilt she can hear in the Assassin's voice even as she turns her mind to a different set of plans. "Asif would not have his freedom bought with the death of any of us. Rest now, Brother, you will need all your strength soon enough."

Malik leaves them there. Strides out into the courtyard where the rest of her small force of men wait. They're silent as they turn to her and Malik takes their lighter injuries into consideration as she starts to issue orders.

.

.

The pigeon comes just as the sun sets and Malik is preparing to go out into the city. Her black robes once again resting over the robes and armor of an Assassin. She reads his orders and can only spare enough to feel the tiniest bit of resentment at Altair's return so soon. Asif has little enough time left and Malik cannot —_will not_— allow her own troubles to cost him his life.

She folds the message and drops it down into the courtyard below her to deal with properly later. The hood comes up over her and Malik moves quickly through the city. Easily avoiding the hostile guards on the roof as she goes to hunt down the people she needs to find.

.

.


	19. Chapter 19

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **I think I see a light at the end of the tunnel this fic has become -deeper than I thought and almost endless- but I'm afraid it's only Ezio waiting for more work. Or maybe Connor waiting for me to actually do more than rotate the camera angles and stare at his _everything_ in AC3.

.

* * *

.

Majd Addin hides behind an army of guards. Food and entertainment are brought to him, and the only times he's ever seen are during the perverted trials and executions he holds. When he can stand in front of a crowd of people and make them scream for blood. Malik has looked and tried, but she's finding fewer and fewer options to save Asif.

Sleep is a thing Malik grimly puts off when she returns to the Bureau from another fruitless night. There are few men in her network that can help, and even fewer of them are willing to go against Addin. The man's reach is far and his words an addicting poison that has seeped deeper into the city than she'd first thought.

Altair's voice is as unexpected as it is, for once, welcomed. "Safety and peace, Malik."

"Were it that the city was possessed of either," Malik says wearily before looking up at the man before her. His robes, usually so pristine, are dull with the dirt of the road. It's habit more than anything else that prompts her to snap at him. "Why do you trouble me today?"

"Al Mualim has marked Majd Addin for death. What can you tell me about him?" Altair moves into the room easily enough that it appears he won't need to rest, and Malik envies him that for the moment.

"Much," Malik responds. Her days have been filled with nothing but information on the snake. "Salahuddin's absence has left the city without a proper leader, and Majd Addin has appointed himself to play the part," through honeyed words and more money than Malik has the resources to track down at the moment, and that bothers her. That this man could take over so easily and with no resources of his own that she can find. "Fear and intimidation get him what he wants. He has no true claim to the position."

"That ends today," Altair states it plainly as a fact that cannot be argued.

"You speak too readily. This is not some slaver we're discussing. He rules Jerusalem and is well protected because of it," as her own men discovered far too late. Even with the aide of the mercenaries she could hire she doubts she would be able to take the man by force. "I suggest you plan your attack carefully, get to better know your prey."

"With your help I will," Altair surprises her with the easy acceptance as much as his words. "Where would you have me begin my search?"

His words and tone take a moment to penetrate her tired brain. The question as foreign as the notes of something she thinks might be actual respect.

"What's this? You're actually asking for my assistance instead of demanding it," Malik marvels over the fact, and wonders if her lack of sleep is causing her to hallucinate. Altair never asks for things. He either demands or simply takes. "I'm impressed."

"Be out with it," Altair snaps, irritation creeping into his voice for the first time, and his shoulders hunch almost immediately.

"As you wish," Malik finds herself too tired to poke further at the reasons for this. Her informants are thick on the street straining to catch any bit of rumor that might be circulating about a trial or execution. One more set of ears will do neither good nor ill at this point.

Altair listens as she lists off the places most likely for Majd Addin's guards to gather. More as a way to get the man out of her building than in the hopes he'll learn anything. "Thank you for your help, Dai."

The man actually sounds sincere in his thanks.

"Don't foul this, Altair," Malik calls out to his back. He does not acknowledge her words though and Malik stares at the empty courtyard with eyes that burn from lack of sleep.

She angrily rubs them and has trouble opening them again. Her mind is obviously suffering badly, because that exchange was almost friendly for them. Malik pushes away from her desk and stumbles to the cushions laid out for use. A few hours sleep will only do her good at this point.

.

.

Malik doesn't know how much time she gets to sleep, but she's feeling sharper when Kaseem wakes her with a cautious touch to her boot. The boy is still as Malik blinks her eyes open, watching them dart around before fixing on him. He will make a good doctor eventually. His patience with the sleeping habits of Assassin's is a good skill to have. "What news?"

"The gallows are being prepared," Kaseem reports as he crouches down beside her. "Four nooses are going up, but the guards are being tight lipped about anything else."

"Damn him," Malik sits up and her body still aches for the sleep she's been denying it, but she has enough to keep going. "Find the others and inform them of this. I want everyone to be around those gallows and be prepared for a rescue."

"How will we do that, Dai?" Kaseem asks after rising to his feet, hesitating below the ladder he uses to enter and leave the Bureau.

How indeed. Malik feels her lips twitching up in the ghost of a smile because she already knows the answer to that. "With the most unsubtle distraction you will ever see. Go, now."

Kaseem scrambles up and out of sight as Malik finds her feet and goes in to prepare herself as well.

.

.

"What news, novice?" Malik asks as Altair comes in around midday. No other news has made it to ears yet, and she has no doubts that it will be coming shortly on Altair's heels.

"I am not a novice," Altair frowns, perturbed by the title he so rightfully deserves.

"A man's skill is defined by his actions, not the markings on his robe," Malik coolly says and watches as consternation ripples across Altair's face. Had he thought her lack of bite earlier meant more than her tiredness?

"We can trade barbs, or do Al Mualim's work. It's your decision," Altair eventually states calmly, his words neutral and devoid of anything she can latch onto.

Malik narrows her eyes at him, but Altair still refuses to be baited, and there are better things to be done with their time. "Then be out with it!"

"Majd Addin is holding a public execution not far from here in the next few hours," the time is imprecise but more than Malik had seconds before. It will give her enough time to speak to her men once more. "It's sure to be well guarded but it's nothing I can't handle. I know what to do."

"And that is why you remain a novice, in my eyes. You _cannot_ know everything, only suspect. You must expect to be wrong, to have overlooked something. _Anticipate_, Altair!" Think ahead to the natural consequences of his actions. Look to the complications that always seem to arise and not allow them to throw him out a window of some sort. "How many times must I remind you of this?"

"As you wish," Altair still refuses to bite back as he bows his head at her chastisement. Giving off the air that he is actually _listening_ for once in his life. "Are we done?"

"Not quite. There is one more thing," Malik pulls out the feather that was sent to her with the orders for Majd Addin's life. She takes a breath and feels her lips tighten as she informs Altair of the last factor to consider in this mission. "One of the men to be executed is a Brother, one of us. Al Mualim wishes for him to be saved," Altair is still, head angling to the side slightly as he listens intently. "Do not worry about the actual rescue; my men will take care of that. But you must ensure Majd Addin does not take his life."

Malik emphasizes this last order.

"I won't give him the chance," Altair raises his head and she can see his eyes. For the first time in quite a long time it feels. They're gold with anger and determined.

"So I hope," Malik says grimly because she knows better than most his failures. Her people will close in on the executions, but they can only get so far without inducing a riot. The minds of the people are too easily swayed to anger at the actions of a group, and it's her hope that the very public actions of one man -so obviously marked as an Assassin- can prevent that.

For once, Malik can understand why the Master would make use of a man like Altair. He's a force unlike anything else in these situations. Blunt and almost unstoppable as long as his anger doesn't blind him. No single Assassin under her command would be able to do this mission. Malik herself, she is ashamed to admit, would not be able to do this. Not without endangering Asif's life.

Altair doesn't make a move to leave despite the urgency of the matter. Malik takes her mind away from the plans she has forming and snaps at him, "Maybe you _want_ those poor people to be executed then, because that's what will happen if you don't leave now!"

Altair leaves quickly then, and Malik wastes no time. Her people are already in place but there's always room for one more hand. She changes fast into the women's clothing she hates and the fake arm that get more cumbersome by the day, and leaves to find the gallows.

.

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"This is not justice!"

The crowd gathering around the gallows _cheers_ as the guards cut down the few who voice their disagreement. It's a blood sport to them, and Majd Addin stirs it with poisonous words that the people latch onto with blind zeal. Men and women alike screaming for the deaths of people who are perfectly innocent while Majd Addin speaks of sin and safety.

"Our Brother is the priority," Malik says as she passes each one of her men. Carefully stationed to be close, while still blending in. "But free the others if possible."

A woman and two other men stand on the gallows, their hands and feet bound with the noose around their neck. They are afraid, but otherwise mostly unharmed. The same cannot be said of Asif. The Assassin is bound more than the others to keep him on his feet, and is obviously suffering greatly. Malik doubts he is even coherent enough to see any of them in the crowd.

Malik drifts through the crowd slowly. Getting as close as she dares, eyes flickering from the crowd to the roofs above the area. Looking for the flicker of white that will assure her Altair is not going to fail in this as well.

Kaseem appears next to her, and his voice -low as it is- is almost too loud as he whispers a panicked, "Dai?"

"Hush!" Malik grabs his wrist and drags him back into the crowd as a guard turns to look at them.

"Temptress! Succubus! Whore!" The crowd _roars_ in approval as Majd Addin lists all of the sins of the woman, and Malik sees no sign of Altair from the ground or above.

"Can we not save them?" Kaseem asks thought he question is more a plea than anything else.

She had hoped to, but as the man draws to a dramatic conclusion and the poor woman protests what is likely the truth she doesn't think it will happen. Malik tightens her grip until it's painful and makes the boy flinch. "I said, hush! You'll end up next to them if you're heard."

Kaseem's mouth opens again, and Malik worries that it was a mistake to bring him this far into the rescue. Her thoughts are interrupted by a shrill scream, and she whirls back to the gallows in time to see Majd Addin go down under the weight of Altair. Where the man came from she does not know. Kaseem slips away from his in the suddenly louder crowd as Altair crouches over the still living man.

They talk, Malik sees Majd Addin's lips move and Altair's head tilt as he listens, but she's too far to hear over the screams of the people. She pushes forward against them, slipping around those who won't be moved. She reaches the edge of the platform abandoned by the guard in time to hear the end.

"Here," Altair's voice is full of a kind of wrath she has never heard from him before, "let me show you."

He twists his hand, and Majd Addin jerks in his hold. Breathing his last as Altair slowly stands. He looks to the people with nooses around their necks before turning back at a shout. The guards have recovered from their momentary shock and are scrambling up to the platform. Their weapons ready as they charge him.

Altair waits with his arms held open and loose at his sides. He lets them get close before running. A throwing knife leaving his hand as he goes far slower than she knows he's capable of. Drawing as many of the guards after him and away from the gallows as he can.

Malik doesn't wait for them to leave the small area. Their attention is fully on Altair, and the far fewer men left behind with the prisoners are no threat. Not to her and her men.

The two closest die with twin looks of surprise on their faces as she cuts them down. She hears more fall behind her as she cuts the rope binding Asif fast. He sags against her without the support, his voice cracked from the torture he no doubt went through beforehand, "Sorry, Dai."

"Save your breath," Malik gets her arm under him and guides him to the steps. The others are quickly cut down, and it's not only her men that help the condemned to safety. Malik feels a little hope that some of those who didn't run screaming are helping. "Let's get you to safety, Brother."

.

.

"Jerusalem needs a new ruler," Altair announces as he enters the Bureau. Rumpled and tired looking, but no worse for the chase that he led across the city.

Malik is tired. The trip back to safety exhausting her like little else has in far too long. Carrying Asif and keeping an eye out for the roving patrols of guards almost too much. It sapped the little energy she had gained from her nap.

She marks a line on the map she's working on only as a way to stay awake until Kaseem comes back with one of the more experienced scholars to look at Asif. His wounds are not immediately threatening, but the extent of them can be a danger in and of itself. Malik does not feel herself qualified to care for him without a true doctor's opinion first.

A bloodied feather is placed to the side of her map. Carefully far enough not to stain the parchment she works on. Only then does she look up. "So I have heard."

She picks the feather up and turns to deposit it into a box for safe keeping. Blood stains her fingers and adds to the stain of the wood before she turns back to find Altair standing squarely in front of the desk.

"What's this? No words of wisdom for me?" Altair asks. The words are a mocking jab, but there's an honest surprise underneath that Malik can't unhear. "Surely I've failed in some spectacular fashion."

"You performed as an Assassin _should_, no more, no less," he saved their brother, and executed Majd Addin. His showy ways working in Malik's favor for once. Though she'll cut her own tongue out before admitting to that. "That you expect praise for merely doing as told however, troubles me."

"It seems everything I do troubles you," Altair says, and the mocking edge is gone.

Malik barks out a harsh laugh that lacks anything but the blackest humor. Finally, she thinks, the man is starting to get it. "Reflect on that. But do so on your way back to Masyaf. Your work here is done."

Altair is gone long before Kaseem returns, and Malik thinks very little of it as she finally allows herself the sleep she's been sorely missing.

.

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	20. Chapter 20

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

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As important as her work is in Jerusalem, Malik still finds herself taking missions. Straight from the Master and not the kind she is used to, but missions all the same.

Malik insists on taking a horse when she's summoned to Masyaf for the first time. Her back weighed down with the letters she was going to send, and the weapons she feels most comfortable with. The Assassin robe she now habitually wears under her Dai ones is a comfort as she passes areas she last saw under worse conditions.

Masyaf is a welcome sight to her and Malik feels her heart lift as she swings off the horse. The Novice who takes the reigns gives her a long stare that she returns coolly before the boy flushes and mutters an apology.

She gets many more stares as she walks through the city and makes her way up to the citadel. She just might have to make regular visits to Masyaf a priority for these new Novices. Teach them a thing or two before she has to deal with them in her Bureau.

"Dai!" The call comes from the training arena and Malik steps away from the gates to great Aban. He grins and it's the one that she learned early on in life not to ever fully trust. No matter how good things might eventually turn out. "A moment of your time?"

"I can spare a little," Malik allows and follows him back. The group of Novices is larger than any other she's seen before, and a good many of them are younger than they should be. Their stares are every bit as intense as the ones she'd gotten in the city, and Malik already knows why Aban had called her over. She asks the question anyway for appearances sake. "What do you need, Brother?"

"A proper partner," he says and ignores the small mutter that gets them both as he ignores the practice blades and unsheathes the one he wears. The sun glints off the sharpened edge and the Novices go silent in partial awe and disbelief.

"Nizar has broken his arm and is nearly useless," Aban tilts his head to where Nizar, sitting in shade, is giving them both a series of very rude gestures. His eyes glint with wicked amusement though as he watches Malik step into the arena and draw her own sword. "It's hard enough teaching the children which end is the one you stick into your enemy as it is. It's impossible to do with only my own shadow as an enemy."

"Really?" Malik's sword is steady now, the awkwardness something she has trained out of herself. She swipes lazily at Aban's head. Slow and clearly showing her range to him before they begin. "And here I thought it was because you had such a hard time deciding _what_ to stick into your opponents."

A few of the older Novices titter at what they clearly think is more of a joke than it actually is. Aban has clearly been lax in his habit of leading Novices into vice. Aban grins at her and _attacks_.

The clash of sword on sword is deafening, and Malik doesn't hear any noise the Novices make after that. Aban is as fast and strong as ever, but Malik has always been faster and she's stronger too now out of necessity. The fight is uneven from the start, because he hasn't changed at all and _she_ has.

Malik slides away from direct blows and doesn't let her sword get locked up in pointless battles of strength that she won't win without the leverage of her other arm. She leads Aban around for a bit to give him time to do anything he might be planning, but he only attacks and blocks with the standard moves drilled into every Assassin. She goes on the offensive when it becomes clear that is all he has planned.

It's easier to fight with one arm when she isn't defending herself. One arm more than sufficient for the swift, punishing strikes she sends Aban's way. Forcing him to go on the defensive as she strikes him from all sides and angles she can manage.

Asif can, on occasion, be persuaded to face her, but the man is still overly cautious. No matter how often she upends him on the ground, he won't go all out on her and the spars are usually a waste of their time. Aban has the good sense not to even try and hold back. She doesn't even realize she's grinning -wide and savage- until Aban's on one knee, throwing a hand up in defeat, "Yield!"

"If you insist," Malik steps back and feels the pleasant thrum that goes up her arm. Her muscles warmed by the exercise as she smoothly sheathes the sword, and gives him a hand up. "Is that sufficient to demonstrate your lesson?"

"Oh, I think it illustrated it quite nicely," Aban laughs as he turns the hand up into a firm shake.

"Yes, it illustrated how to get your ass handed to you by your superiors quite nicely!" Nizar calls from the fence around the sandy arena.

"Step inside, Brother. I can teach you a thing or two about fighting with only one arm," Malik turns and finds herself the subject of a good deal more eyes than had been there at the beginning.

The Novices all stare with varying levels of incredulity, and over their shoulders she can see the white robbed forms of Assassins. Many she recognizes, and some she does not.

"I think I will leave such an advanced technique to a true expert," Nizar says with a surprising amount of good humor that almost makes her trip over her own feet.

Malik steps out of the arena near the man and he bows his head with the kind of honest respect her younger self would have happily sold a great many things to get years ago. "Dai, it is good to see you again."

"And you as well, Brother," Malik says awkwardly, because she's unsure what to do with this now that she seems to have it.

In spades, it appears, as every Assassin she passes greets her with the same respect. Their eyes bright with something that Malik can't quite place until Hamid finds her -barely inside the citadel itself- and laughs. His hands skim up the hood she still wears up before rapping hard against the weapons she wears openly. "It is not the standard uniform of a Rafiq or Dai, but I suppose blending the two ranks you've obtained suits you."

The black robes of a Rafiq are made to be worn over the standard whites of the Order. Softer robes more prone to tearing, and Malik had truly not considered that there was much difference in wearing the robes she earned when travelling or when strenuous work needs to be done. The markings along the edge of it and the hood declaring the ranks she obtained before Dai. A Master Assassin for all that the title was given after her arm was taken.

"Come," Hamid says, leading her with a steady hand through the hall. "The Master is busy but has entrusted me with the details of our mission."

"Our?" Malik asks with a smile because aside from her first trial she has never gone with Hamid on a mission before.

"You object?" Hamid asks, and then laughs when she shakes her head quickly. "Let's wash the dirt from your throat before we add another layer to it then."

.

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"The matter of traitors weighs heavily on the Al Mualim's mind," Hamid eventually gets around to telling her as they relax in his rooms. Larger and more richly appointed than the ones she used to know him for. Advising the Master seems to be doing him some good.

"Does he suspect there are more?" Malik asks with a dark frown.

"He does, but he has no proof that he isn't jumping at shadows," Hamid says as he fixes her with a patient look that eases some of her initial reaction. "And it is most likely shadows, Malik, but there is no harm in looking further into the matter."

"Who does he suspect then? And why would it require us to look into it?"

"Zafir," Hamid says and doesn't smile even at her surprised laugh.

"Zafir? Truly?" The Rafiq of Damascus is an overly optimistic man with a tendency to butt into matters best left alone, but she has a hard time imagining treachery coming from him. "Zafir _lives_ for the Brotherhood. I think I'd be more likely to betray the Order than he."

"Yes," Hamid agrees and he's still not smiling. His eyes are grim with something that makes Malik pay close attention. "That was exactly the line of thought that led up to Zafir being suspected."

"What? Do you mean," Malik trials off slowly and blinks. She stares at Hamid and doesn't know how to finish that sentence, because the only way she can is with something that's so horrifying it's preposterous. Hamid doesn't move or speak though and Malik finds the words crawling out of her mouth despite herself. "Did the Master think me a traitor?"

"He jumps at shadows," Hamid repeats and reaches out to grasp the fist she's made on the table between them. Fingers pressing against her tense muscles. "He has cause to, and as long as no accusations are made and each one proven false, there is no harm in it."

Hamid sounds like he believes that whole heartedly, but Malik swallows hard on a nasty knot of feelings and has a hard time accepting it.

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.

When they arrive at Damascus, Malik dresses in the women's clothing she acquired in Masyaf and the fake arm she'd been forced to have made. It's more uncomfortable than the one she left in Jerusalem, but it works just as well when Hamid leans on it and exaggerates his limp. They pass the gate guards with no problem. Just a daughter dutifully escorting her aging father.

"Our visit is unexpected," Hamid says lowly as they move to the Bureau, and Malik bitterly wonders who had been tasked with spying on her. "All we are here to do is observe. If nothing arouses out suspicions..."

Hamid trails off and Malik nods. No suspicions, no traitor.

Zafir is _delighted_ to see them, and Malik honestly doesn't hear the excuse Hamid gives for their presence. Her stomach turning with guilt as the man enthusiastically greets them.

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There is only so much of Zafir that Malik can stand to take. The man is far too cheerful, and his naivety is strikingly hard to take. She escapes to the city under two different pretenses and walks the streets to simply get away for a while. She's not looking for anything until a flash of white and red catches her attention several hours into her walk.

It's Altair, because her day truly cannot be complete without him. Malik tilts her head down and scowls. Dropping back to allow the man to overtake her, to get her out of visual range. Not that she needed to, as he barely spares her a glance.

Irritated, Malik carefully follows Altair as he walks the streets searching for information no doubt.

She wears the plain cloth and headscarf of a woman, two things guaranteed to make her completely invisible to anyone but Hamid. Not even Aban has seen her dressed this way for all that he's teased her that she should try it with the way her hair has started to grow longer.

She walks closer to Altair, staring hard at the back of his head as she gets dangerously close to him before dropping back. Testing his limits and awareness.

It's a wasted effort though. For all the attention the fool pays to his surroundings she could have marched right behind him in her old Assassin's attire, blood stained and ripped as it is, and he would not have noticed.

Malik feels her lips curl in a sneer. Even now Altair still focuses in on the target to the exclusion of all else. It's that bloody single-mindedness that has led to the wrong people dying. One of the many flaws he is supposed to be _eliminating_. Zafir's enthusiastic singing of his changes are obviously false.

She knows it's pointless to lecture-

A scream rends the air. Malik pauses, attention automatically tracking the source and looking for the danger. The useless guards have cornered another hapless victim. Four of them surrounding one small figure. Malik takes an unconscious step forward and freezes.

"Filthy little thief!" One of the guards yells as he kicks at a child. "Think we would not see your thieving little hands!?"

"I did not!" The child is too thin and dirty for Malik to tell whether it's a boy or girl. It doesn't matter as the child curls into a tiny ball trying to avoid the blows coming from each side now. "I did not!"

The child chokes on a scream at a vicious looking kick to the side. White hot fury makes it impossible for Malik to move for precious seconds. She forgets about her self-appointed mission to observe Altair, her position as the Dai, and even the loss of her arm.

Hard metal cools her hand as she palms a throwing knife and starts walking towards the guards. They're preoccupied enough that she can easily kill all four without any of them noticing. A singles cut along the throat from behind before she melts back into the crowd.

She does not get the chance.

The closest guard is bleeding out on the ground before she even realizes Altair is there. The second has no chance to react as his throat is opened with a slash. The third is stabbed through the gut before he can do more than gape. The fourth guard actually manages to lash out with his sword, but Altair is not where he was. The fourth dies as Altair stabs his hidden blade through the back of his neck.

There's a shout from down the street, and Malik sees another group of guards have spotted the whole thing. They run, pushing and shoving the reluctant people before them out of the way. Altair pauses then, his head angled down to the child that is still whimpering on the ground as the guards get closer.

Malik knows in that moment that he's torn between leading the guards away and ensuring the child's safety even at the cost of endangering his own. Good as the man is at running, she has no doubt he'll not do the child -and himself- more harm running.

Altair goes stiff as she walks up and shoves him from behind. His sword angling for an attack that freezes when she drops to her knees beside the child. Holding the head scarf back just enough so she can properly glare up at him. "Run you fool!"

She gets a solid second of the most dumbfounded surprise flashing across his face before he's gone. The guards run past her and the child. More interested in the fleeing man than her.

The child cries out weakly in pain, eyes glassy as they stare up at her fearfully. "Hush, I'll not harm you, child."

Picking the child up is no harder than any other task she's had to learn to do all over again. He, Malik is fairly sure the child is male, is small and light. His true youth shining through as his fingers curl trustingly against her.

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The child is unconscious when she turns him over to the scholars who Zafir had introduced her to before returning to the Bureau. Moving quickly as she can because the boy's blood is bright against her clothing and she doesn't want to be stopped by the guards.

The Bureau is empty when she drops down into the courtyard, but the building down the street that houses the Rafiq's workshop and oven is bright with light. Malik anticipates that they will be busy for many hours to come and pulls her normal clothing out before walking over to the fountain.

She's just filled a basin with water when a shadow drops almost soundlessly behind her. There's a noticeable moment of hesitation before Altair says, "Safety and peace, Dai."

Malik snorts and stands, balancing the basin against her hip with her hand and turning to look at him. Altair is blatantly staring at her in a way that she almost finds amusing. "I doubt I'll find either of those things here. If you are looking for the Rafiq, he's in his workshop. I am sure you can find your way there without me holding your hand, yes?"

She moves over to a corner where a low table is and sets the basin down before stripping the headscarf off and letting it fall to the floor. Altair's presence is heavy and silently obvious. Not leaving despite her clear dismissal, and Malik doesn't care.

If the man wanted to stare at the figure she makes in women's clothing then she'll give him an eyeful.

The clothing peels away far too easily. Leaving her in the wrappings around her chest and the light trousers she wears for these moments. The fake arm is stiff and her fingers fumble with the buckles holding it to her shoulder before she realizes it's herself making the act tougher than it should be.

She's flustered because she can still feel Altair's eyes and presence behind her.

Malik bites her tongue hard and manages the buckles of the arm. Letting it slide to the ground with the clothing. The water is cool and Malik makes quick work cleaning the blood that had soaked through the clothing off of her before turning to the robes she left out. Ignoring the thicker trousers for the moment, she pulls them on. The flustered feeling leaving her bit by bit with every piece that falls into place until she's calm enough to turn and face Altair again.

He stands where he landed. Head angled down and eyes firmly locked away. An illusion of modesty because Altair has freakishly good peripheral vision. He only looks up fully at her when she steps forward and something changes in his face.

"What?" Malik snaps, irritated for no good reason other than his presence. She waves at the discarded disguise. "Disappointed I changed?"

"No," Altair responds immediately, and when he looks at the clothing she finally identifies the expression on his face. He's _disturbed_. "It doesn't suit you at all."

"Dressing as a woman?" Malik asks with a cool smile.

"Yes," Altair agrees, though he almost winces as soon as the word leaves his mouth. Very much aware of how badly that answer can be taken. He plows onward anyway. "You don't belong in that sort of clothing."

Malik laughs, and it's bitter because he's right. She really doesn't belong in them. "Of course, only a _true_ woman should dress that way."

Dima's voice and face has begun to fade in Malik's mind. Losing the sharp edges of focus, but their last argument still has sharp barbs that tend to poke her in unexpected ways for all that it happened nearly two years ago.

"You are a woman," Altair frowns, and there's confusion there as there should be. Malik is arguing with the memory of someone else more than she is him. "You are just," Altair grimaces and looks away before turning back to face her fully. Frustration -with himself, Malik notes with surprise- clear as the fading light on his face. His voice rising loud for the first time in too long. "You are at your best in armor with a weapon in hand, and-"

Altair stops abruptly and his jaw works for a moment. Eyes bright gold with something that isn't blazing fury before that fades and Altair bows his head. Voice carefully blank and neutral like it has mostly been from his first mission in Jerusalem. "I waste your time, and other's. I'll talk to the Rafiq about my mission."

Malik watches him leave and doubts she will see him again before they leave to report a lack of suspicious activity on Zafir's part. It should be a relief, but without Altair there to distract her with anger Malik finds her mind troubled and filled with thoughts she does not want to consider.

Hate and disdain are easy emotions for her, and she does not want to give up that familiarity just yet.

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	21. Chapter 21

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Much of the dialogue from here out is lifted straight from the game. Small changes will be made to better fit the fic.

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* * *

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They separate at the gates of Damascus. Hamid will go North to Masyaf to report their findings, and Malik will continue South to Jerusalem. The very fact that they found nothing -no reason to doubt, not even so much as a bad thing to say- does not ease the discomfort she still feels at the mission. The fact that she leaves with several of Zafir's well crafted pots as gifts, and a promise to send a detailed map of the city to him do not help at all.

"Safety and peace," Hamid says before they part. His hand warm on her left shoulder through the stiffer cloth of her robes. "Do not think overly harsh on the Master. He has his reasons, and we are all better for knowing for sure."

"On you as well," Malik says and does not address his last words.

She thinks instead. Long and hard as she travels back to her Bureau. Maneuvering around caravans, and dodging the increasing number of Crusader patrols. Their eyes more wary and alert the longer the war drags on. Her mind inevitably goes to the part that bothers her most; who had been sent to spy on her. Who had been sent to be sure her loyalty to the Brotherhood was true. As if the sacrifice of her arm and brother weren't enough to show her faith in the Order.

Her thoughts circle darker and darker until she reaches Jerusalem. No closer to a conclusion than when she started, and forced to put the matter aside. Forced to stop thinking before she starts to jump at shadows too. It's an uneasy decision but suspecting each Brother that comes through her city of spying on her will do her no good. Hamid's words are a faint comfort but she tries to hold fast to them nonetheless.

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Altair gains his rank back slowly. One mission at a time, the results spoken of with varying degrees of glowing praise, but it's not until she receives a letter from Jabal that speaks _well_ of him that Malik thinks on the matter she's been avoiding since Damascus. Jabal has never been shy in sharing his honest opinion with anyone, and his candid remarks of Altair have always brought Malik no small amount of amusement. To read the praise and humble admittance of being wrong is a shock that forces her to think again.

Damascus sticks out in her mind, his actions still bothering her. The man Malik had known would never have taken the time from his mission to save anyone -not even a child- from the dubious mercy of the guards. The child could have fallen in his arms, begging for mercy, and the Altair she knew would have tossed him aside without a second thought. His mission and the status it would gain him all that mattered.

Malik goes through her correspondences again. The letters she's received from other Rafiqs, Hamid, and even the few that Aban tends to deliver himself because the concept of sending a missive off is foreign to him. She looks through her own reports as well. Reading for the things she's deliberately not paid any attention to. The things she _knew_ were happening but consciously chose to forget for the anger that filled her at the mention of Altair's name.

Altair has been saving more than just children. In Jerusalem alone, Malik's informant network has swelled with people grateful to the Brotherhood. Their loyalty bought with the act of saving a sister or younger brother, a child rescued, and even a few patriarchs of large families defended. Their gratefulness to the Order and faceless man who saved them. The scar on his lip the only identifying feature they know to tell him apart from the other Assassins.

Similar things appear to have happened in other cities as well, though she has no exact numbers. Zafir's glowing praise of his work with the community makes more sense now even as Malik's mind cannot comprehend the reasoning behind it. There's a picture in the letters and records. One that paints the outline of a man who Malik does not know at all, and that thought disturbs her.

.

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It feels, somedays, like the mission that had led her to Solomon's Temple happened a life time ago. At others it feels like she is only a single step away from fleeing it.

Malik feels that last most the nights she wakes from nightmares so real she can smell the blood Kadar bled out mixing with the scent of de Sable's armor. Can feel his gauntlet clad fingers digging into her screaming wounds. It's a fight to wake from them, and they leave her cold and unable to sleep the rest of the night through.

It's this alone that has her awake when Asif tumbles down into the courtyard. Haste making him clumsy as he blurts out his news breathlessly, "Robert de Sable has returned to Jerusalem!"

Nightmares are reflections of reality, and Malik grimly wonders if she'll be able to fight her way out of this one too.

.

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The secret room in the old Bureau is tight and stifling even after the tight tunnels she'd followed from the cistern. Malik feels her way up the ladder by touch, unwilling to use even the faint light that will not show through at this time of day. Beyond the room she sees frantic movement. The larger room on one side of the wall has been converted into a training arena for the Crusaders. Useful for observing their battle tactics to a certain extent, but far more useful for the way their tongues loosen with the exercise. Now it's filled with more men than the ones she knows are usually there. Bedrolls and blankets are laid out and it's obvious the newcomers will be bedding down there.

The room that Mufid had conducted the Order's business in is on the other side, and Malik finds the confirmation she did not want there. The room was turned into a meeting area that has given them most of the information she has sent to Masyaf. Presiding over the large table kept there now is a man that Malik will never forget even if she has a long life ahead of her to do so.

Robert de Sable looks unchanged, no surprise as it's only been a year, but it feels wrong to her that she is so very different while this man is the same. Almost an exact image of what he was that night.

Malik had thought she knew the meaning of anger and rage. Thought she knew it every time Altair crossed her path. She now knows she was wrong, because what she felt then is nothing more than a guttering candle to the blinding heat that fills her now. The fingers of her hand ache from where she's pressing them to the stone wall. Sharp pains that don't do much to help her mind as she stares at the easy smile of de Sable as he laughs at something said too low for her to hear. He gestures out something with a fine goblet of wine, and the rest of the men around him laugh as well.

Malik doesn't learn much from the French she can hear loudly enough to understand. She closes her eyes and concentrates on the language to better pull details from the talk. As much for information gathering as for calming the urge she has to throw open the secret door and make a suicidal try for de Sable's life. It would fail, she knows this, but the thought is strong and it's a good long time before she can trust herself to let go of the stone wall and make her way back down the ladder.

.

.

The air shifts and Malik doesn't need to look up to know she's not alone, or know who is standing in the shadows of the doorway. Always waiting there as if afraid to intrude past some invisible line without invitation. "Safety and peace, Altair."

"Upon you as well, brother," Altair steps into sight, and there's hesitation written all over him. In every action he does. Malik notes it helplessly, and it goes to add to all of the things she has already noted. A pile that doesn't seem as important or surprising with the firm reality of de Sable being in her city.

"Seems fate has a funny way with things," Malik says eventually, her words far more careless than she feels as she looks up from the map of Damascus she's been inking.

"So it's true then," Altair's voice is dark and his lips are thin. Anger, maybe a bit of distaste. "Robert de Sable is in Jerusalem."

Malik nods, and wonders at the lack of outright anger in Altair. Just the mere mention of de Sable should have invoked rage in him. It used to when they both wore white and talked big about the enemies they would end for the Brotherhood. Was this another thing that's changed in him? "I've seen the knight myself."

"Only misfortune follows that man. If he's here, it's because he intends ill," "I won't give him the chance to act."

"Do not let vengeance cloud your thoughts, brother!" Malik says quickly, alarm singing through her because she knows all too well what comes about when anger clouds his mind. "We both know no good can come of that."

"I have not forgotten. You have nothing to fear," Altair bows his head before her. Accepting the rebuke without protest. Without trying to defend or excuse himself. Simply taking it. "I do not seek revenge, but knowledge."

Malik believes him. Not even a month ago she would have scoffed at the thought. Three months before she would have laughed herself hoarse at the the thought and spent the remainder of her day counting all that she lost. "Then truly," Malik says and admits aloud what she has only thought before, "you are not the man I once knew."

Altair is silent and Malik wonders if his head, once the highest point in Masyaf she'd thought, could get any lower. When the man speaks it's an offering of information, one Zafir had told her often happens after his missions complete. "My work has taught me many things, revealed secrets to me. But there are still pieces of this puzzle I do not possess."

"What do you mean?" The Altair of old would have never have bothered with secrets or puzzles. The blood on his feather all he needed to take from his mission. More facts she gathers but doesn't need.

"All the men I've laid to rest have worked together, united by this man. Robert has designs upon the land, this much I know for certain. But how and why, when, and where," Altair paces a little before her, frustration showing in his body more than his words and face, "these things remain out of reach."

"Crusaders and Saracens working together?" Malik asks even as she cannot fathom it. The goals of both sides too different to mesh well, but Talal and Garnier stick out in her mind. The slaver sending the Crusader people to experiment on for what could not have been half the price he would have gotten for them elsewhere.

"They are none of these things, but something else," Altair says with a shake of his head. He pauses then and the last word he speaks is dragged out of him. As if he isn't sure he should be sharing it. "Templars."

"The Templars are part of the Crusader army," Malik reminds him. The order under de Sable's command, but otherwise indistinguishable from the others as far as Malik can tell. They all act the same and fight for Richard with no care to the innocents that get trampled in the process of their religious fervor.

"So they'd like King Richard to believe," Altair turns to her and lifts his head up enough for her to make out the details of his face in the shadows. "No, their only allegiance is to Robert de Sable in some mad idea that they will stop the war."

For all the certainty Altair speaks with, none of his words make sense. None of the actions of the men Altair has been tasked to assassinate were those of people seeking peace. Nothing that would stop the war. Malik frowns as she tries to fit this in with the facts she knows. That Altair believes what he's saying is obvious, and Malik would call him a liar if the whole idea weren't so ludicrous. Too unbelievable to not be true. "You spin a strange tale."

"You have no idea, Malik," Altair says and there's exhaustion there. Thick and speaking volumes about how much this must have been weighing on him. Another oddity to add to the pile she already has. "But tell me where they've been seen; I should be after him before he slips away."

"Three places I can say for certain," Malik carefully sets the Damascus map aside and unrolls her map of Jerusalem. She wonders when exactly it was that Altair had stopped demanding all information given to him, and accepted he would have to gather it on his own. She points out the hospital, guard tower, and church that the man has been seen to frequent the few days he's been in the city. "See what you can learn. I will do the same."

"I'll be quick as I can," Altair promises after studying her map carefully. Fingers hovering over the lines as he traces routes before bowing his head again and turning to leave.

"Stay safe, my friend," Malik calls out to his back and she dredges up a smile when his hand slips in his climb up the wall at the words.

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	22. Chapter 22

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

.

The main problem with using anger to sustain herself, to push her forward, is that anger is _exhausting_. It requires a large amount of fuel to keep it going nice and strong in a searing blaze that burns everything clean. It's too much to sustain over a long period of time, too much work. Malik is _tired_ of fueling that blaze. Tired of the searing burn and the twisted scars it leaves behind.

The realization makes her feel the true extent of that tiredness, and she slumps against the desk. Head cradled in her hand as she takes these precious moments of privacy to gather herself again. All her people scouring the city for news, and Altair now looking as well. Someone will return with news soon enough and she has to be ready for whatever that might be.

.

.

Altair isn't gone more than a few hours before she can hear the near silent rustling he always seems to make as he jumps over the edge of the entrance. She's not sure if it's something he does deliberately or not. He never makes a noise while on a mission.

"You've the scent of success about you, Brother," Malik says before Altair has a chance to pause in the entryway.

"I've learned much about our enemy," Altair says, coming in to stand confidently before her, and it's not the same as the overconfidence that had always made her spitting mad. Altair is sure but not preening over what he's found out.

"Share your knowledge, then. Let us see what can be done with it," the map of Jerusalem is still out and Malik turns to pull parchment out. The ink ready for the notes she'll make to be sent later with the results of this mission.

"Robert and his Templars walk the city freely," which is something that goes beyond her working theory of bribery. Not even the most corrupt of guards could overlook such a blatant presence in the city under Salahuddin's control. "They've come to pay their respects to Majd Addin. They'll attend his funeral, which means so will I."

"What is this, that Templars would attend his funeral?" Majd Addin's funeral has been something that Malik has been paying close attention to. The lateness of the funeral rites arousing suspicion in her and a flurry of rumors throughout the city. The fact that de Sable and his men will attend confirms many things for Malik. Their presence in the city more than the bribes. Much more if Altair's theories are correct.

"I have yet to divine their true intentions, though I'll have a confession in time. The citizens themselves are divided at their presence. Many call for their lives," an understandable and expected response. Many people, in the poor district, especially came to Jerusalem for refuge. Rumors of Acre and the way the Crusader army cuts bloody swathes everywhere they go are common. "Still others insist that they are here to parley, to make peace."

"Peace?!" Malik laughs. Men like de Sable only seek peace at the end of their swords. Not content unless they attain it by walking on the bones of all those they've killed.

"I told you. The others I've slain have said as much to me," Altair insists though he sounds every bit as confused as she feels over the fantastic tale.

"That would make them our allies," Malik explains with an incredulous shake of her head at the thought of allying with any of them. "And yet we kill them."

"Make no mistake," Altair continues firmly we are nothing like these men. Though their goal sounds noble, the means by which they'd achieve it are not. At least," Altair pauses again and the uncertainty comes back, his voice going lower, "that's what Al Mualim told me."

Al Mualim jumps at shadows. The thought is uncomfortable, and treasonous should she speak it. "So what is your plan?" She asks the question to distract herself from the line of doubt that's been growing.

"I'll attend the funeral and confront Robert," Altair states simply and Malik lets her head droop a bit to hide the way her lips stretch into more than a small smile. The simple plans are always the best, and Altair has always lived by them. Eschewing complicated plannings for the most straightforward path possible.

That it works is not something she can deny. "The sooner the better," Malik pulls out the feather that had been sent for this mission and lays it out on the surface between them. She means it when she wishes him luck, "Fortune favor your blade, brother."

"Malik," Altair takes a step forward. She can read the hesitation in the movement despite the fact that there is no pause. His hand hovers over the feather before carefully picking it up. His head isn't bowed as he looks directly at her. "Before I go, there is something I should say."

"Be out with it," Malik says tiredly and Altair flinches back under an insult that only he hears.

"I've been a fool," Altair says and he's close now, close enough for her to see fully past his hood. Altair's face is tired. His face lined with worry and exhaustion. It has been that way for longer than she's been willing to acknowledge.

"Normally I would make no argument," Malik says and his lips quirk up slightly as she chuckles. The smile fades too fast though. "But what is this? What are you talking about?"

"All this time, I never told you I was sorry. Too damn proud," Altair's gaze moves to her left. The stare hard but all she can see in it is guilt. "You lost your arm because of me, lost _Kadar_," Malik sucks in a breath at the reflexive pain, and he notices. His eyes drop once more. Voice going softer. "You have every right to be angry."

The words are like sweet water on a parched throat, but Malik feels nothing on hearing them. No relief, no vindication. Nothing. Only a touch of curiosity and surprise, because she does not know why this man is apologizing.

Malik looks up at Altair. His eyes are down in humility that isn't faked, his shoulders slumped in shame that is no lie, but he stands straight and solid. Waiting for her to do with his words what she pleases. Silence fills the bureau, perhaps uncomfortably long, but Altair doesn't flinch under it. Malik hears the words leave her mouth before she knows she's saying them. "I do not accept your apology."

Altair flinches as if she'd hit him. His face goes utterly blank as he takes a measured breath that isn't steady at all. There's a world of pain she can't truly understand when he accepts what he thinks she is saying. "I understand."

"No," Malik shakes her head because, while she is not sure entirely of the why, of this fact she is completely sure, "you don't."

Altair doesn't push or demand an explanation for all that his shoulders are now tense. Expecting another blow perhaps. "

"I do not accept your apology," Malik isn't really thinking before she allows the words to come out of her mouth, because her thinking has only led to confusion, "because you are not the same man that went with me into Solomon's Temple. So you have nothing to apologize for."

"Malik," Altair starts to speak and then stops. Disbelief written all over him and he seems to shrink on himself in that moment. She'd wondered how low his head could get, and she has her answer now. It doesn't please her as much as she once thought it would.

"Perhaps if I had not been so envious of you," Malik muses and this burns on its own merit for all that it is true. Envy and competition had always fueled her interactions with Altair. The consequences of that competition going unchecked by sense not occurring to her until too late. "I would not have been so careless myself otherwise. I'm just as much to blame."

It hurts to admit this. The thoughts she's had deep in the night, after waking from only the worst of nightmares. When the phantom of her left arm clenches its fist and burns so much that even staring at the stump doesn't ease the sensation at all. The thoughts she's pushed aside for the easy release of anger, the easy out of blaming it all on Altair.

It hurts to say, but it's a cleansing pain and Malik welcomes it.

Altair does not. He's shocked and a little alarmed as he denies it. "Don't say such things!"

"We are one. As we share the glory of our victories, so too should we share the pain of our defeat," Hamid's words, as ever, easy to call in her mind. The words she quotes now were among the first he told her. In Jerusalem while she still ran barefoot through the streets stealing coin and food. His almost poetic words about the Order that had been a mystery to her then. "In this way we grow closer, we grow stronger."

Altair swallows hard enough for Malik to see, "Thank you, Brother."

"Rest if you need to, Altair, that you might be ready for what lies ahead," Malik says offers, and it doesn't feel so strange to have Altair so near.

.

.

Kaseem brings a basket filled with bread, smoked meat, and fruit. He also confirms the news Altair had brought as he shifts before her from foot to foot. Eager to give his report and get back to the streets to find more for her. The boy is a fine hand with wounds, but his passion for hunting down information and rumors is unparalleled. He's almost like Aban that way.

"Go then," Malik dismisses him, calling out as he scrambles away, "Do not push too far! The last thing I need is to save you from the guards again."

There's a breathy sound from the corner that Malik eventually places as a chuckle. She turns to the area Altair has taken up with a frown she doesn't really feel. "I don't know why you are so amused. You would be the one I send to do it. You've become so very good at saving people from those idiots."

"It's an easy enough task," Altair replies with only a trace of smugness. He watches curiously as Malik kicks more cushions close enough that she can place the basket between them. A clear offer that Malik has never shared with him before. "It takes little enough effort to help them, and we are meant to protect the innocent, are we not?"

"Yes," Malik tears into the bread and pointedly leaves a chunk of it closer to Altair because the man is proving reluctant to reach out first. "You would not have agreed with that before."

It's poking at wounds that are still raw from the flinch she gets, but Altair doesn't shrink from it. "No, I wouldn't have. It's one of the many things I have learned better."

"I have noticed and so has the rest of the Brotherhood," Malik enjoys the coolness of a breeze that blows in from the entrance. Relaxing back against the wall and lazily picking at the food. "I will admit that I had my doubts over the Master's leniency."

"I resented it," Altair admits and steals the handful of grapes in the basket. He flashes her a grin that's familiar in this very unfamiliar amicability between them. "And I think 'doubt' would be a very mild way of putting what you thought of my punishment."

It is perhaps the most pointed thing that Altair has said to her in over a year. Not approaching the sharpened words they used to fling carelessly about, but Malik still finds herself grinning back. It's something she didn't realize she'd missed so much until now. "If you insist on knowing the utter truth, I am afraid I will have to admit my doubts led me to think long on far more appropriate punishments. I don't think you wish to hear about those though."

"Nothing is true," Altair loftily responds and reaches up to drag his hood down. The cloth bunching under his neck as he slides down the wall to recline more comfortably. His eyes are drowsy and tired, he had to have rode hard to get here from Masyaf so fast after Malik sent he message of de Sable's presence. It's likely he hasn't had more than a few hours sleep at the most, but he fights it. Eyelids drooping, but gaze staying fixed on Malik.

"Sleep you fool," Malik kicks the closes leg to her none too gently. "You will need all the rest you can get before facing de Sable. There are hours yet before you need to leave for the funeral. Take advantage of them, you are safe here."

"I always have been," Altair lays still for a few moments more. Eyes stubbornly open before finally closing them, shifting and rolling until his back is to her. He's asleep in a matter of seconds, and Malik looks at his back turned trustingly to her. Guilt is a funny feeling, and Malik entertains it briefly before deciding there's been enough of that for several lives. Malik sinks down to the floor and turns so that her back is to his. A brief rest is called for.

.

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	23. Chapter 23

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **It seems more likely to me that Robert de Sable would bunk down in an actual home than the gutted remains of a temple. Slight change from the game there, hope you all don't mind too terribly.

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* * *

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Waiting is the hardest part of being Dai of Jerusalem. Malik makes it a point to be as involved as possible with any mission that comes across her desk, but it's not always possible. She can't always take up her sword and follow along, or manipulate her network from the streets. Sometimes a mission requires her to wait in the Bureau. Listening intently to the updates that come in all too infrequently.

It doesn't surprise her when the bells start ringing their alarm, but Kaseem's jumbled account sheds little light on what is happening until Altair almost falls through the opening in the ceiling. Robes torn and stained with blood that just might be his own. "It was a trap!"

Malik has him in hand and down on a stool near where she stores the bandages and salves before he can say more. "I had heard the funeral turned to chaos. What happened?"

"Robert de Sable was never there. He sent another in his stead," Altair shrugs out of the top half of his robe at her prodding. Unbuckling weapons and armor as she pulls out a few lengths of bandages. "He was _expecting_ me."

"You must go to Al Mualim," Malik says grimly as she sees the blood running down Altair's chest. She blots it away to get a clearer look, and her eyes catch on a series of scars that are new. There's far more there than should have been possible for the man to get in the time she last saw this much of him bared. "The Master must know of this."

"There's no time. She told me where he's gone, what he plans," Altair protests, sight still stubbornly set on his target even if his words make sense. "If I return to Masyaf he might succeed, and then I fear we'll be destroyed."

"We have killed most of his men. He cannot hope to mount a proper attack," the wounds are superficial. The cuts having done more damage to his robes than his skin. Her mind is far ahead and it takes a few seconds for Altair's words to register. "Wait, did you say 'she'?"

"Yes! It was a woman, but that's for another time," Altair waves her question away and looks down at his wounds for himself. He sees them as superficial as well, and bares his teeth at her in impatience as she covers them with salve and the bandages she's laid out. He subsides when she digs her thumb into one of the deepest cuts and glares up at him. "For now we must focus on Robert. We may have thinned his ranks but the man is clever. He goes to plead his case to Richard and Salahuddin, to unite them against the common enemy," Altair grimaces as she presses hard against a tricky cut. Using the salve and blood to make the bandages stick long enough to wrap the length around his chest, "against us."

The enmity between Salahuddin and Richards men, no matter how civil Salahuudin is reported being, is too great to allow such a mad plan to work.

"Surely you are mistaken," Malik steps back when she's done the very bare minimum. Altair wastes no time pulling his clothing and weapons back on. "This makes no _sense_, Altair. These two men would never—"

"Oh but they would," Altair interrupts. "And we have ourselves to blame. The men I've killed, men on both sides of the conflict, men important to _both_ leaders. Robert's plan may be ambitious but it makes sense, and it could work."

The sense still eludes her but that it's there she doesn't doubt. She can feel it just beyond her grasp, an instinct that has served her well for all her life urging her to trust. The confusion is too great though, the facts still too unknown, and Altair's push to continue forward is reckless.

"Look, brother. Things have _changed_. You must return to Masyaf. We cannot act without our Master's permission. It could compromise the Brotherhood. I thought," Malik feels her lips thin and resentment bubbles up fast for all that she's decided to let that go. Altair is acting like his old, impulsive self right now. "I thought you had learned this."

"Stop hiding behind words, Malik!" Altair shouts and turns on her, left hand slashing through the air as if he could cut her words in half. "You wield the Creed and its tenets like some shield. He's keeping things from us, important things!"

Altair spits the words out in a loud burst that reminds her even more of the man from before, until she realizes that he's speaking against Al Mualim. Altair has ever been loyal, if not to the Creed or Brotherhood, then to the old man himself. No one and nothing else had ever reigned Altair in faster than a simple word from him.

And his claims are not entirely without some truth to them. _The Master jumps at shadows._

"You're the one who told me we could never know anything, Malik, only suspect," Altair's arms drop and he looks and sounds as tired as he had on first coming to Jerusalem. These suspicions have been growing in Altair for a while. Building up with no one to listen to him, because Malik doubts he ever let this much treasonous doubt fall form his mouth to anyone else. "Well I suspect this business with the Templars goes deeper. When I'm done with Robert, I will ride for Masyaf that we may have answers," Altair tilts his head back and closes his eyes, running a hand over them hard before blinking them open again with a look of sudden hope. "But perhaps you could go now?"

"I cannot leave the city without making arrangements," leaving the Bureau untended is something that can only be done for short time periods. Her recall to Masyaf had only been possible with the arrival of a Rafiq to take care of matters in her absence. Without that she will have to pull the scholars in to act for her. An act that will take a good deal more cajoling than anything ever should. She does not like how it feels like she's failing something to admit it.

"Then walk amongst its people," Altair waves to the wall separating them from the streets. "Seek out those who served the ones I slew. Learn what you can. You call yourself perceptive," there's no barb or insult in the word, "perhaps you'll see something I could not."

"I don't know," Malik says slowly. Facts and rumors fighting in her mind. Altair's words ringing in tune with her own recent dealings. The mission that had her viewing her own Brothers with such suspicion. Fighting with the part of her that wants to fiercely defend Al Mualim. "I must think on this."

"Do as you must, my friend," the fire in Altair bleeds away into determination. Altair's eyes gaining the set it takes when he sets himself to a hunt. "But it's time I ride for Arsuf. Every moment I delay, our enemy gets one step ahead of me."

The sun is setting, and night travel is always dangerous, but it will not deter Altair. Malik breathes deep and nods her acceptance. "Be careful, Brother."

"I will be. I promise," Altair is gone as quickly as that. Leaving Malik to an entirely different sort of mess than she's used to when dealing with the man.

.

.

Rumors fly through the city, and the guard is on edge the next day. Malik forgoes her women's clothing though. Arming herself grimly and keeping to the roofs. She knows what the people of the city are talking of, knows the secrets of the guards, and doesn't need to find out anything more from them. What she needs now are the secrets the Crusaders —these Templars— hide.

The cistern is as tight as she remembers, and she forgoes the light again as she climbs up into the secret room. The secret door opens easily and she leaves it ajar as she enters their domain. It's chaos. Things strewn about in an obvious quick exit. Malik strides through the mess without care. Eyes searching the papers scattered around, but none appear to be very sensitive.

Noise draws her attention further and Malik makes her way to the opening that had been smashed into the wall separating the Bureau from the other building. She hears voices speaking rapidly, and Malik can make out enough to know they're commands to finish packing. Given the amount of things left behind and the numbers that Kaseem reports dead at Altair's hands she doubts these people are very concerned with anything not important.

Malik steals into the dimmer halls of the building that had been some home of some sort and tracks them down to a brighter area. The rooms larger, no doubt reserved for those of higher rank. Malik palms a throwing knife as she identifies the room, and the sound of two sets of boots.

If flies true when a form darkens the doorway, and the Templar falls without any trouble. A shout from the room has Malik drawing her sword as she charges, and then curses as she throws herself to the left away from the door. A three legged stool crashing against the wall where she just was. Enough time for the last person to charge the hall and engage her sword to sword.

The first strike is wide, the hall being dimmer than the room and Malik kicks out hard into her opponent's stomach. Taking advantage of the brief advantage to knock the sword wide and hook and ankle around an armored boot. Kicking out hard again and bringing the Templar down where her boot and sword can keep her enemy pinned. Long enough to examine and question. Malik has Altair's words and what she sees does not surprise her as much as it would have without them.

"Ah," Malik's spoken French is not very practiced. She's better at understanding and reading it than speaking, but she does well enough. "The decoy."

The woman starts at the sound of Malik's voice, the one thing that has never been mistaken as male in her life. Surprised perhaps, but she recovers quickly enough to spit out questions despite the way Malik's boot presses into her throat. "Who are you!?"

"You know enough of who I am, Templar, you don't need my name as well," the title trips over her tongue but the snarl it gets her is all she needs to confirm that bit of information with Altair's stories. "I am surprised though. I thought your people intolerant of women."

"The same could be said of your kind, Assassin," the woman sneers and there's a fire in her that Malik recognizes. It's the same one that had gotten Malik through so many sneers and assumptions while training. "Nor did I think them so tolerant of cripples."

"My people are my Brothers, you would be surprised by what is tolerated," or maybe not. Malik doesn't care to converse on this matter long enough to find out for sure. She moves the tip of her sword to the soft leather that joins the woman's armor together. The weak point made larger than it should by the fact that it's poorly fitted and not made for a woman's body. Not like the armor she wears now. "What purpose do you seek here, Templar? What has all this been for?"

"Peace," the woman says. Not intimidated in the least by the boot at her neck or the sword pressing close to vital areas. She sounds like she believes what she's saying too.

"Peace through war and subjugation of those who don't believe the same as you?" Malik lifts her head up enough that the woman will be able to see her sneer. "How many innocents will you kill for this so called peace of yours? How much blood must flow?"

"As much as is needed," the woman says with a fierce grin and Malik has a split second to admire the dedication she can see before her knee is buckling under a blow.

The woman chokes as the move puts more weight on her throat but it doesn't stop her from kicking out and making Malik stagger back. She turns the stagger into a skipping retreat as the woman comes up fast with a wildly swinging dagger. Her teeth clenched in a snarl even as Malik blocks the next slash and the woman's sword is thankfully behind Malik. Her reach is much shorter, Malik doesn't anticipate this battle taking long at all.

"Dai!" Asif calls out from behind her. His voice echoing through the building and the woman's eyes shift. The fury in her eyes dying and turning grim. She's outnumbered now as well. Malik smiles grimly back at her and shifts to charge her.

"Damn you!" She throws the dagger and Malik spins out its path. Lurching forward because the woman is running, pelting forward as fast as she can.

Malik follows not willing to give up her prey, but there's a flutter as she turns a tight corner and Malik cries out as a small storm of books and wood crashes into her. The weight bearing her down to the ground for much too long before Asif is there pushing the splintered bookcase off her. "Go! The woman, get her!"

"Dai, are you harmed," Latif finds her as she kicks her way out of the books.

"Fine!" Malik snarls, nothing more than her pride smarting as she looks out to the street where Asif had chased the Templar woman. "Are there any more of them left?"

"No, the few who did not flee are dead," Latif is careful not to appear to hover over her as she heads back to the room with the dead man in the doorway.

"Good," Malik steps over the body and looks around the room, a familiar crest greets her from a piece of clothing on a comfortable looking bed. Malik sheathes her sword and turns back to Latif. "Follow Asif and make sure that last one dies as well."

The Assassin is swift and Malik finds herself alone in the room that had obviously been given to de Sable no matter how short of a time that stay had been. Clothing, papers, and other personal effects are laid out. Half packed by the two remaining Templars before she interrupted them. Malik bites back her frustration at not getting much from the woman and goes to work tearing apart de Sable's things. Looking for something, anything, which might shed more light on this whole mess.

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	24. Chapter 24

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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Malik finds what she had hoped to find. A slim book bound in leather for easy travel and even more ease to bind in something much sturdier once it was filled. de Sable's hand is spidery, filling the pages with the looping swirls of his language that reads strangely from left to right.

She reads the journal accounting and finds, rather quickly, that she wishes she had never found it in the first place.

The account is a private one, meant for no eyes but de Sable's own. The man would not have wanted any of these writings to be seen by anyone else. There is no reason for these words to be lies. No matter how much she wants to decry the mangled name scrawled out in the list of Templars who found the secrets of the treasure she had lost nearly everything to deliver.

Blood stained and covered by the ghost of Kadar's touch right into the very hand of Al Mualim. A man up to his neck in the matters of the Templars, the very group of people who embody everything that the Creed has taught her to fight against.

_The Master jumps at shadows._ Rashid ad-Din Sinan. His name mangled to fit the loops of the French hand that wrote the names of his closest conspirators.

Malik closes the journal and is not surprised to see the sunlight slanting in the courtyard as it sets. The hours having melted away as she learned exactly why Al Mualim would be so very paranoid about loyalty.

It's hard to trust the loyalty of others when you yourself have none.

"Asif! Latif!" Malik's shouts jolt the two slumbering men, who had returned unsuccessful in their hunt only hours ago, awake. Malik is moving already. Pulling out weapons and the gear that they need. "Gather the others, we must go to Masyaf at once! Tell them to be prepared for battle."

Her men don't question her, though she can see them exchange looks in the reflection of a dagger she shoves into her belt. She wants nothing more than to sit back down and study what she has learned. To let it settle in her mind, but Altair is right. There is no time.

.

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"We have been betrayed most severely," Malik says over the sound of the horses. They crowd close around her to hear and she raises her voice loud. She will only explain this once to them, and let them see the results for themselves when they reach Masyaf. Not too late she hopes. "Deals have been made and our Brother's lives sold to deliver the land into the hands of our enemy. All our work for nothing! Each mission, each assassination giving more and more advantage to them."

"Who, Dai?" The question comes from behind, but she doesn't turn to look. "Who has betrayed the Brotherhood?"

And this is where it will start, Malik thinks as she urges her horse faster. As if that little bit of speed can eat up the miles that still separate them from Masyaf. Malik waits until they've cleared a tight bend to answer. All her orders to now have been unquestioned. Even when she took them all from their posts in the city and left the Bureau unmanned. Their loyalty is that fierce, and now she will break it in them. One way or another.

"Al Mualim," she finally says and listens hard to the silence that spreads around her. Nothing but the pounding of hooves on hard packed ground.

They've passed a Crusader outpost already, but it was abandoned. She has no fear that they will be stopped in their journey. Pity, she thinks her men could have used the distraction.

"What nonsense-" Malik pulls ahead of her men, and she hears their voices raised in anger and question.

She does not slow her horse though. Only continues on alone until they've caught up to her again. "Dai," Latif's voice is bathed in anger and Malik does not blame him that her title comes out as an insult, "you speak of treachery but it is you who is riding out to strike against Al Mualim!"

"The Master would never-"

"Yes! He would!" Malik cuts in fast before they can all start to argue. "Al Mualim watches all of us and trusts no one with his own secrets. He has Brother watch Brother, Rafiq spy on Rafiq. Looking for any sign of treachery to keep up all from not seeing his own."

Malik takes a chance and bluffs, "The mission you received from him that he told you to tell no one about. The mission to _spy_ on your brother for any sign of them being a traitor is the same mission he gave to another about _you_. As you watch your loyal Brother wondering why he would betray the Order, so too has another been watching you!"

The silence that comes after is profound in a way that tells her she hit the target right.

"His orders to kill have not been random of late," Malik continues as her horse hits its stride. The pounding giving way to a smooth canter as it finally warms to the travel. "They have been to take out the men he has consorted with to gain control of the lands and make himself ruler of all. So many factions are leaderless that they will welcome him. And in his hands right now he has a weapon powerful enough to crush those who would not."

The treasure, this Apple of Eden, is fantastic, and de Sable had admitted to not knowing the full extent of its power. What little she had read was terrifying enough.

"The Creed," Asif says, low as if he meant not to be heard.

"Does not apply to a man who was never an Assassin to begin with," Malik turns her head enough to look at her men, but their heads are down and hood up. She sees nothing more than their scowling mouths. "He was a Templar long before he was one of us."

"But what proof do you have of this?" Latif demands, his scowl more pronounced than the others.

Malik has the words of dying men as briefly related to her by Altair, and the suspicions that have slowly risen from her mission to retrieve the Apple. She has the journal of one of their greatest enemies to fill in the rest. It is enough proof, but explaining it all would take more time than they have to travel.

"My proof is in Masyaf," Malik bluffs again, reaching for the time she needs to keep her men behind her. "You will see it when we arrive and you will know I speak the truth then."

Her men don't speak again. Their silence angry and wary at times, and that is fine with her. As long as they follow her to Masyaf.

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"Why are the gates open?"

Malik reigns her horse in and the men follow suit. The mounts whicker at the sight of rest but Malik feels unease flick through her. The gates to the city are wide open like they never are unless caravans are entering. There's no sign of any of the guards, and, try as she might, no straining of her ears can detect the normal low buzz of the market.

"We may be too late," Malik says grimly and dismounts. Leaving the pack that contains her traveling gear attached, and letting it go free. Malik touches the throwing knives attached to her, and ghosts her fingers down to curl around the hilt of her dagger. "You want proof Latif? Approach the city quietly and see."

She doesn't wait for Latif or any of the others as she quickly makes her way to the gates. Keeping silent and watching for any sign of movement. She doesn't know exactly what she is looking for, what she might expect, but her gut is telling her she was right in more ways than she wants to be.

Soft footfalls follow her and Malik trusts the other Assassins to see for themselves before moving against her.

Masyaf is deadly silent. Not even the sound of animals breaks it. Malik flits from shadow to shadow. Her men spreading out around her as they move slowly through a city that appears abandoned. Baskets litter the ground, and doors yawn open to swing in the breeze. Flies flit around a piece of bread turning moldy. The buzzing exceptionally loud in her ears as she passes.

A hiss freezes them all, and Malik melts into and open door. Peering out into the street as something moves.

_Someone_.

A man walks the street, heading toward the open gates. He walks with a strange purpose that holds Malik's tongue from greeting him and demanding information. The man walks as if he sleeps still. Arms to his side and eyes fixed ahead to something only he sees. His steps are purposeful and do not avoid the things in his path. Baskets and dropped food crushing under feet that are bare. That have been bare for a while going by the buildup of dirt and grime along with the sluggish trail of red he leaves behind when he steps on a shard of pottery.

The man doesn't flinch even as fresh red is left behind him.

Malik steps out once he is beyond her and watched him continue. Not surprised when he does not look back.

"What is this, Dai?" Latif breathes behind her. Horror coloring his words and telling her she is not the only one who saw the full extent of that.

"Betrayal," Malik responds and when she turns to her men there is no more disbelief. Not a single trace of anger left as they look to her for orders. "The roofs. We must see how many have been enthralled."

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From above it's easy to see that they almost walked into a trap. The unnaturally still forms of white and gray robed Assassins wait in several out of sight positions. Their faces blank of all emotion as they wait, weapons drawn and ready in their lax hands. Their purpose does not need explaining.

Sneaking by them is easy. They do not look up from their posts, and that is almost as terrifying as their lack of free will. For they, above all others, should know the dangers that comes from above. It only emphasizes the wrongness of what is happening. The roof tops only lead them so far though, and Malik crouches on the last one before a clear break in buildings.

Deliberately made so that no one can sneak up on the citadel. Malik has no doubts that there are eyes watching from above as well, and she does not think these one will miss them.

"Dai," Asif says softly, none of them speaking above the lightest whisper.

Malik turns and blinks as Asif pushes two small forms forward. Novices who blink up at her with wide and awed eyes. All the proof needed to let her know they are not in thrall. Malik doesn't remember them from her last visit to Masyaf, but there are so many of them now that it means little. "Novices, are you alone then?"

"No, Dai," the one on the left speaks up, voice a little loud and the one on the right hisses. He continues in a lower voice. "We are few but we hide on the cliffs near the walls."

The boy points toward the citadel and Malik knows where he is talking about. It's a small area, cramped and well known to all Novices as a place to escape. It's also known as the best place to find tardy Novices and thus the escape rarely lasts long.

The problem is getting to it. "Were you not seen? Or do the thralls not look?"

"There is cover," the second Novice is eager to supply. "A collapsed stall at street level. It hides us from the observers."

"Show us," Malik says.

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The hidden area is as she remembers it. Smaller even now that it is filled with more than just the small forms of Novices.

"Malik!" Something loosens in her chest as Hamid embraces her. The gesture overly affectionate for them, but the circumstances excuse it. "Oh, little one, your coming is fortuitous."

"No," Malik pushes the man back and looks him over. Looks over at all of them. They are worn and battered. Obviously wounded and the light of hope in their eyes as her men edge into the area tells her much about the state of their minds before she arrived. "My coming is ill timed. For Al Mualim."

"You know," Hamid says with a sigh that is almost broken. He shakes his head slowly in wonderment. "How?"

"Robert de Sable speaks well of his most trusted companions," Malik replies and watches that statement ripple through the people gathered. Not all Assassins, she notices a few civilians tucked safely away. Quiet and watching her with haunted eyes. "I'm afraid this betrayal was a long time in coming, Hamid."

"So it seems," he limps over to a tall outcropping and Malik takes in the red soaked bandage around his already lame leg. "We can lament about being blind later. For now we _must_ find a way to stop him. Is it too much to hope that you are not the last reinforcements we will see?"

"Other than Altair, we just might be it," Malik says as she follows him and is surprised to see Nizar resting on the ground. The front of his robes torn open and cloth wrapped tightly around what must be some savage wounds.

"Altair," the man's smile is wan and his voice breathy. "You say that like it should be a good thing, Malik."

"I think it will," Malik kneels down and examines the way the cloth is slowly growing damp. The blood refusing to stop. She looks up at Hamid and nods. "It was he who first alerted me to this madness, thought I was loathe to believe him until the proof nearly gutted me."

"No one would have believed for anything less than this," Hamid gestures to the few people around them. "The things I have seen, Malik. The things I have _ignored_! They screamed of this day and still I turned a blind eye."

"Peace, Hamid," Malik rises back to her feet. There is nothing she can do for Nizar even if she had the supplies to do so. She regrets, briefly, her decision to leave Kassem behind, but the boy is on the track to become a scholar and maybe a Rafiq in his own time. The violence that is going to happen here is not something he can handle. "My men were ready to turn on me for voicing the possibility, had you spoken out you surely would have been executed long before now."

"Still, I-"

Hamid's words stop abruptly and Malik finds herself going still as a sound echoes in the still air. Faint and coming from the city. It takes seconds to identify it as fighting, and Malik has little doubt who is the center of it.

"Damn him, he probably just charged right into the city with no caution," Malik mutters as she turns to her men. "With me! Let's go save that idiotic Novice."

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	25. Chapter 25

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Normally I want the chapters no less than 2k, but the next chapter sorta demands this.

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Altair twists to avoid blows with their enthralled Brothers. His own blows weak and uncertain as he's faced with familiar faces. The act of actually harming them holding him back enough that it is going to get him killed.

The fool. He can't see what she can from up high, can't see that there is no other option. Malik throws the first three knives. Asif and the rest of those who followed her follow suit more slowly until only Altair stands. "Altair! Up here!"

"You picked a fine time to arrive," Altair says as he straightens up, his shoulders slumped as he walks up to her. He's much more damaged than he was leaving Jerusalem, and it's obvious killing de Sable took a lot of effort.

"So it seems," Malik agrees. Altair's robes are torn, and his bracer of throwing knives nearly empty. She's fairly sure she can see the sun through a few arrow holes in his red sash.

Altair sways a bit and Malik reaches out to steady him. Bracing him up as he looks over at her men. Counting them. "Guard yourself well, friend. Al Mualim has betrayed us."

"Yes. Betrayed his Templar allies as well," Malik says with a bitter smile, though it seems none of them live any longer to rue that betrayal.

Altair's look of surprise is quite comical despite the circumstances. "How do you know?"

"After we spoke I went to the buildings seized by the Templars. Robert had kept a journal, filled its pages with revelations," more than Malik has had the time to read fully. Her time taken up with the revelation of the Apple and Al Mualim's role. "What I read there broke my heart, but it also opened my eyes. You were right, Altair. All along our Master has used us! We were not meant to save the Holy Land but deliver it to him," there is movement below them in the city and Malik watches as more thralls appear. Their movement smooth but not under their own control. "He must be stopped!"

"Be careful, Malik. What he's done to the others, he'll do to us given the chance," with the Apple, and Malik wonders how much of that he knows too. Altair didn't speak of it, but she'd had a hard enough time believing the motives of man from him. "You must stay far from him."

"What would you propose?" Malik snorts because Altair is talking nonsense right now. Her mind remains her own for the moment and staying far away from this matter will only make it worse. "My blade is still strong and my men remain my own. It would be a mistake not to use us!"

Altair hisses in frustration but he closes his eyes tight and when he opens them he is not as tired looking. There's some sense in there now as he nods. "Distract these thralls then. Assault the fortress from behind. If you can draw their attention away from me, I might reach Al Mualim."

"I will do what you ask," Malik agrees because it goes along with what she had thought. Altair is wounded and tired, but he is Al Mualim's pupil. If anyone knows the old man best it is him.

"The men we face, their minds are not their own. If you can avoid killing them..." Altair trails off and there's sorrow in his voice and regret in his eyes when he casts them down to where their Brothers lie dead.

"Yes," Malik says softly because she never thought she would ever see that in Altair. That kind of empathy for the dead that is still foreign to her. "Though he has betrayed the tenets of the Creed, it does not mean we must as well. I'll do what I can."

Malik promises and knows that she won't be able to keep it completely.

"It's all I ask," Altair says and a smile quirks his lips up. Honest and relieved as he turns back to the citadel. To Al Mualim and his precious treasure. "Safety and peace, friend."

Were they? Malik muses briefly on the word they've both now thrown around far too casually before deciding it is right. Has probably been right long before either of them had even heard of Solomon's Temple for all that they would have denied the link then.

"Your presence here will deliver us both," Malik states because this is something that she can feel in her very bones as being true. She smiles a bit before turning her back on him and looking at the men she has command of. Her smile fading as she thinks on the difficult task before them.

"Just be quick about it!" Malik calls out to Altair's retreating back, and one of his hands flicks out in a brief acknowledgment.

"Run," Malik tells her men and they obey her. Running back the way they came to the area that is only a short climb to the back entrance of the citadel. They'll gather whoever can still fight and give Altair all the distraction he needs.

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It's hard to remember to use the flat of her blade and the hilt on the men attacking her. Their eerily blank gazes throwing her as much as their complete willingness to give their lives. It sickens her, this parody of loyalty, because Al Mualim had no need for it. Any of them would have willingly done the same if he only asked them to.

It drives home the things she read in de Sable's writings. This lack of respect for the people he apparently only sees as pawns.

Malik charges the seemingly endless wave of Brothers, Rafiqs, and civilians. All focused on taking her life as she fights to reach what they're determined to protect, he citadel where Altair works hard to save them. She spins through them easily as they have no finesse. Laying them out as quickly as she can with only two feet and one arm.

She sees her men fighting the same in flashes between the vast numbers. Asif throwing people around bodily, Latif laying in with precise flicks of a staff he'd picked up somewhere, a few Novices working together to bring the black smith down. Hamid moving faster than she thought he could still.

Malik ducks and weaves under a clumsy punch from a civilian and sees Aban below her. Head bleeding from a blow she delivered without noticing it was him she hit. The civilian goes down hard with a split scalp, and Malik doesn't have room to worry about anything else as hands grip her hood from behind.

She ducks and weaves, strikes and kicks, and counts the seconds as the thralls continue to press in.

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Malik knows it's over when the people being controlled drop suddenly. Like rag dolls left discarded by bored children. Malik is left panting just outside the gates of the garden, and casting about wildly for anything else. For anymore enemies, but everyone lays still except for the reassuring movement of their chests. She can see Asif and Latif down the hall from her. Not as far in as she had gotten. Movement outside means the others are well too.

She turns and runs into the garden, following a light and the distant trace of voices she had caught only fragments of before.

Altair stands still, face raised up to look at- Malik blinks as she comes to a stop. It's a map of some sort, and it takes her a bit to recognize the breadth of it before it flickers and dies. The light collapsing back into the sphere Altair holds. The Apple.

"Altair," Malik says, and Altair blinks hard before turning to look at her.

"Malik," the hand holding the Apple falls and he looks further into the garden. Malik follows his gaze and sees the still body of Al Mualim. "He's dead."

"Good," Malik feels nothing but anger for the man that used to be their Master. The one she had tried so hard to please in return for the chance he gave her. Maybe later she will, when the betrayal isn't so new.

"Good," Malik repeats, reaching out to grip Altair who looks lost in a bad place. "He left no other choice."

"He did not regret," Altair says, voice low as people begin to trickle in. Asif and Latif helping a limping Hamid. "In the end he thought he too was aiming for peace."

"Was what you saw in the eyes of out enslaved Brothers peace?" Malik asks as he lets him go and points at the Apple. "This thing is dangerous, Altair. The thoughts it inspires with what it can do are dangerous."

Altair stares down at the Apple and nods slowly before putting it away. One of the Novices makes a stifled noise at seeing Al Mualim's body. The sound seems to snap some of the daze out of the man, and Altair looks at the people gathering around the old man's body. "I have to take care of this."

"There are many graves that need to be dug," Malik agrees but Altair is shaking his head violently.

"No, I have to make _sure_," he steps forward and his left leg buckles slightly before firming. His next steps are more careful as he moves forward. The small crowd parting for him as he kneels and picks the old man up. Easily as if he weighed nothing, and Altair was not bleeding from skin more cut than whole. "I have to make sure that artifact didn't do anything to him, that he does not have the chance to come back."

"Do what you must," Malik waves away the few confused looks and accepts a grateful nod from Altair. "I will begin to see about recovery here."

Altair leaves the garden and Malik can see the stirring bodies of the people as he moves past them. Malik watches in relief as the people pick themselves up off the ground. Seemingly none the worse. With only a few notable exceptions.

"It hardly seems real," Hamid says eyes fixed on a series of blood stains that arc too wide to have been only from Al Mualim.

"Truthfully," Malik says with a wry smile, "I expected much worse."

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	26. Chapter 26

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Fun facts, after a totally oh-shit-that-should-have-killed-me moment _everything_ is funny, because nothing breaks the oh-shit mood like laughter. Also, I laughed tears this whole chapter. I do apologize if no one else thinks it as funny as I do though.

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As always, when dealing with Altair, the mess he leaves behind is the worst part of the entire ordeal. Malik really should know better than to expect anything less by now.

"You burned his body!" Malik screams and she wants to hit something. Altair's face preferably, but the ass is in the cell across from her. A deliberate move that was decided when they were all being escorted to the holding cells when she tried to cave his skull in with a kick. "How _stupidly_ suicidal are you!?"

Because, of course, when the people enslaved by Al Mualim woke up they did so with no memory of the event at all. Only knowing that when they woke up Al Mualim was dead, killed by a group of people whose quick explaining hadn't been enough to avoid the label of traitor. All that before someone had notice Altair _burning_ the body of the Master outside the gates of the city. Where anyone could see.

"I told you, I wanted to be _sure_!" Altair yells back. His back is to the wall the furthest he can get from the bars, and he looks like a mad man stripped down to pants and the white bandages that almost cover his entire chest.

"That he was _dead_?" Malik throws her arm up because it had been pretty clear to her and everyone else that Al Mualim was dead. Why Altair had felt the need to desecrate his body to ensure that is something she simply isn't understanding.

Neither are the remaining members of the Brotherhood who are debating their fate somewhere far above the level the cells are in. "Off the top of my head I can list a dozen ways to test how dead a person is and _none_ of them involve fire, or that sorry excuse of a spectacle you put on out there. How typical, you really have not gone beyond the level of a Novice!"

"I am not a Novice!"

"God spare me!" Aban groans from his post further down hall. His face is discolored from what she is fairly sure was a kick to the face, but she's not going to tell him that just yet. Not while he seems to be one of the few Assassins set to watch them that appears to be willing to give them a chance to explain. "Will you two be _silent_? You are driving me to religion."

"Your father will be happy to hear that," Malik snaps at him, and it's not pointless the way Altair and the rest of her men obviously think. This arguing and throwing blame around. Aban seems to be the only one who seems to understand that. As usual.

Altair is scowling hard enough to permanently fix his face in the expression, her men sit quietly in their own corners of the cells they've been put in, and only Malik seems to realize the immediate danger in the eyes of the men set to watching them. The hard steel that once promised death is growing softer with each word she utters, each reminder she throws out to who she is. That she is not some stranger with evil deeds on her mind.

She is Malik Al-Sayf, Master Assassin, Dai, and their Brother. She is _not_ a traitor.

"If you give up whoring yourself out you might make your mother happy as well," Malik says and there's a loud and obvious cough from down the hall she can't track to its source.

"How many times must I tell you," Aban says with mock patience, and eyes hard with fear that Malik can feel licking at the back of her mind. Growing more insistent the longer Hamid is gone, pleading their case to those deemed trustworthy enough to decide their fate. "Whores expect to be paid. I _gladly_ offer my services for free."

The danger isn't just in the messy trial happening now. It's also down here, with the impatience that grows in the Brothers guarding them. The cry for justice making them twitchy and prone to acting rashly.

"Doesn't stop them from throwing coin to get you to leave their bed," the coughing starts up again, and lasts a little longer this time.

The twitchiness eases slightly. Word by word. Just enough that there seems to be real interest in the fight she eventually manages to pick with Altair after comparing him to a flea bitten cat with an aversion to water. The insult enough to actually get him up on his feet and leaning against the bars right across from her. Eyes blazing even as it looks like a good wind will be all it takes to knock him over.

"Clearly you've hit your head multiple times today," Malik says with relish she can't really say she's faking. One eye on Altair who is frustrated that the bars are forcing him to reply with words, and the other on the guards who are sliding through various stages of humor. From reluctant amusement all the way to having difficulty breathing right. "It was barely past _my_ waist! How you managed to kill the target while still almost drowning is beyond me."

"Lies!" Altair hisses and Aban lets out a badly muffled cat sound that only make things that much better.

Malik smirks as first one, then two of the men watching them succumb to laughter. Guilty and cut short, but it is a victory. Altair's eyes go wide as they dart over to watch them. Flickering rapidly over the men before going back to her.

"Ah, he finally gets it," Malik says, too low for anyone else to hear.

Altair bows his head in acknowledgement and his lips quirk up slightly, but then he's looking back up and Malik doesn't like that look at all. "It could be no worse than the time you tracked your target to a sheep pen. Remind me, did you wait for him to finish with his pleasure or did you wade through the livestock to finish the mission?"

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"I knew a man once who thought it bad luck to make light of a difficult task once it was over," Hamid says with a groan as he settles onto the bench by Malik. The doors remain closed as the hastily convened council questions Altair. "Do not ever give me just cause to doubt my decision to ridicule him for it again."

"I will try," Malik shifts to relieve the pressure on her right arm which is tied behind her back with elaborate knots.

"I think all will be well," Hamid continues, voice low and reassuring. "We are too widely spread with few connections to be a true conspiracy, and they doubt very much that you and Altair could ever see eye to eye enough to plan it all out."

"They'd be wrong," Malik says just as low because that perception is working for them right now and there's no need to upset it just yet. Hamid turns his head to fix her with a hard questioning look. All too aware of Malik's feeling for Altair after her arm. "Things change, Hamid, and people as well."

"That they do," Hamid eventually agrees and lays a hand on her shoulder, "but I did not expect you to ever admit to it."

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Malik stands before them, stripped down to a thin shirt and pants. Her one arm bound behind her and the scared remains of her other one completely uncovered and open to their gazes. And they do gaze. Long and hard at her arm and the way she stands straight and tall. They are all grizzled men, older with enough experience to be trusted to make the best decision for the Order. Rafiqs and Dai, most come up through the rank of Assassin first.

"Tell us why, Malik," the old Dai who had taught her most of what she knows about shatranj orders. His eyes implacable and giving nothing away just like they had when he taught her to think two turns ahead. The three, then five, and so on.

Malik takes a light breath and begins from the beginning because this will be the only chance she gets to tell them her side.

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"You are insane, and I want you to know that I hate you," Aban says, and the way he says it makes it clear those are two separate things to him right now. The rope burns as he unwinds it from her wrist and arm. "My head still aches, Malik."

"Would you rather I ran you through?" Malik slowly lowers her arm and flexes it. Grimacing at the feeling of a thousand knives pricking her flesh that comes with it. "Because that was my other option."

"You should have hit him in the mouth," Altair says but there's no real heat to it. There's not a whole lot of anything to the man right now. His questioning had lasted the longest and obviously drained the most from him.

"It would not have done much," Malik responds anyway. "The muscle there is so overworked from talking that it would have taken no damage."

"Enough," Hamid does not yell but his voice cuts through easily enough. He's leaning on a broken wood staff, using it as a crutch as he moves slowly down the hall. "There is so much left to be done, but we all," Hamid doesn't look but Malik feels his meaning speed right by her to Altair, "need rest. There's time enough for bantering in the morning, children."

Altair is all but dead asleep on his feet, and Malik can feel her own tiredness creeping in at the edges now that she's not so certain she is going to die. It increases when she realizes her rooms are most likely infested with Novices now, and she's not looking forward to the cramped cots set aside for visiting Brothers.

"Stop thinking," Altair catches her wrist and pulls her after him down the hall. Keeping the grip light for a few steps until she catches up and forces him to let go. "My head aches."

"I'll remind you that you said that in the morning," Malik follows the familiar turns in the hall without protest. "So that you are alert enough to fully appreciate the many things that I can say to that."

"Fine," Altair leaves the door to his room open in clear invitation, and Malik closes it. The room has hardly changed from the last time she was in it. "As long as it's _later_."

Altair falls into his bed without further word, and Malik is left wondering for a moment at the logistics of it. She's not sleeping on the floor even thought it would be more comfortable than a cot, but the bed Altair has is even smaller than-

"Sleep," Altair's hand shoots out, impossibly fast to grab her wrist again. Pulling until she gives and climbs onto the bed. Settling on top of Altair as much as the bed.

"You're awfully trusting," Malik says as she shoves him until there's enough room for her to settle a little more on the bed. This closeness is uncomfortable, and if it weren't for both of their exhaustion she'd be more upset about it. The last person she'd slept so closely to had been Kadar. "Need I remind you how badly I wanted you dead not even a month ago?"

"If I let you stab me will you sleep?"

Malik almost replies but Altair is already breathing the deep, even breaths of the unconscious. She resolves instead to bring that up later as well and closes her eyes.

.

.

Malik wakes an untold number of hours later. Curled up in the warm curve of a body. An arm around her and breathing in her ear. Her mind perfectly blank of any thoughts other than a comfortable drowsiness that tries to tug her back into unconsciousness. Fingers skim over her left shoulder, light as they follow twisting scars that Malik knows without opening her eyes.

"Stop," she mutters when they edge down to the end where she is still far too sensitive.

The fingers stop and fall away immediately. "I'm sorry."

For waking her or for that which she has told him is not his fault any longer? It's hard to tell so she decides for him. Malik forces her lame arm to jerk back to its full extent. Ignoring the flash of sensation when she hits bandages and flesh. "You should be, I was having a nice dream before you woke me."

"So was I," Altair says and there's a wistfulness in his voice as Malik extracts herself from the bed.

The stone floor is cold on her bare feet and a shiver works its way through her as she stands. She feels naked as she contemplates leaving to secure everything that was stripped from her. The feeling ebbs when she steals a knife from the weapons Altair keeps in his room.

"Are you going to laze about all day?" Malik asks when she turns and finds Altair still on the bed. Not having moved except to watch her. His eyes are half open and it looks likely that he's going to fall asleep again.

"The day is almost over," he points out and Malik frowns at the light coming in from the window. The sun _is_ setting though.

"Excuses," Malik dismisses and frowns before going to the chest at the end of his bed. Altair's robes are bulky and long, but the weight is comforting. There is an extra pair of boots as well, but she doubts her ability to wear them without tripping. "You should at least have those bandages changed."

"I'd rather eat," Altair says as he finally pulls himself out of the bed with a wince he doesn't bother to hide from her.

It's strange. This new thing where Altair shows more of himself to her. Not hiding his weakness like he once would have. It is exceedingly strange but Malik thinks she can grow used to it.

Altair pulls out a leather harness with a brace of throwing knives and gives it to her as he gets his own clothing in order. The leather is soft and worn, smaller than can fit across his chest. Malik recognizes it from their Novice days by the many small cuts and scratches in it. Many she had put there herself.

"Food sounds appealing," her last meal had been dried meat and hard bread. Long before Masyaf's gates came in sight. They both pause at the door though for a long, unspeaking moment.

The Brotherhood is on the other side of that door, and no matter what was decided the night before she knows there will be resentment. There will be anger and fear and confusion until everything has been made clear. Until every part if it is understood. Not a small matter given the complexity of Al Mualim's betrayals. Altair let's out a loud sigh and pulls it open before striding out confidently. Malik follows.

.

.


	27. Chapter 27

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Confession. I have never played Bloodlines, just read a synopsis briefly to get the gist of the story. I am looking into it more deeply now and have come to the conclusion that Altair is stupid.

.

* * *

.

Asif has a split lip that he did not have last she saw him, but he's smiling as he hands over her weapons and boots. "Sorry, Dai, but the clothing was deemed unsalvageable."

Malik lets her irritation show as she gladly slides the boots on. Her robes had been perfectly serviceable when they were stripped from her. Dirty perhaps but the fight with the enthralled people had not done much physical damage. "And who, dare I ask, thought that?"

"I do not know," Asif shrugs and turns slightly as she adjusts her borrowed clothing to accommodate her weapons. "Aban is the one who informed me of it though if that is any help."

It is, unfortunately. Knowing his mother even if Malik were to march back down to the city right away they would be gone. Nothing more than ash, because she is a mother of six daughters and Aban. She knows how to force her way when needed.

"How fare the others?" Malik asks as she tightens her sword around her waist. Cinching in the loose folds of Altair's robes. It's easier to move about in them now even as the left arm flaps. Malik wonders if it would be worth the complaints to pin it up with a knife before realizing Altair is unlikely to notice a few extra holes.

"Well enough," Asif admits, finger touching the split. "We slept through the worst of it actually. All that is left are a few angry people, and most of them only care to know that Altair was involved."

Which is most likely why he was summoned back after a far too brief meal in the market where they'd both done their best to ignore the stares and frightened murmurs around them. Malik does not envy the council the work they have before them. "And the wounded?"

"In the infirmary, none have perished and they seem like they will live," Asif replies and his eyes track a group of Novices who are blatantly staring.

Malik folds the left sleeve up and slides a knife through the folds. "It is likely we will stay here a while yet. I will try to send you and the others back to Jerusalem as-"

"No," Asif cuts in. Quick and firm.

Malik raises an eyebrow at his redusal and waits for a reason.

"Forgive me, Dai, but I have already spoken to the others and we will not leave without you," Asif has the grace to look embarrassed by the admission despite the fact he refuses to back down from it.

"And why not?" Malik frowns and tries not to sound as irritated as she is. "Jerusalem is left untended in our absence. There is nothing here that is a danger to me anymore."

"You may be one of the few who think so, Dai," Asif's eyes are beyond her now, and Malik turns to see he is watching a group of Assassins who are talking. Nothing pleasant by their expression.

"I trust the Brotherhood, moreover, I trust the Creed," Malik says, and she can't find it in herself to be irritated any longer. They are all suffering from this betrayal, and the hurt of it is starting to fester. "This doubting does not do any of us any good."

Malik knows the dangers in allowing hurt and grudges to fester and build. Knows the toll it takes, and she knows the best way to lance them. She lays a hand on Asif's shoulder and shakes him. "Come, Brother, do not let that traitor's acts push you away from all of our other Brothers."

She turns again and strides up to the group of men who shift uneasily at her approach. There is a variety of emotions on their faces, and very few of them are welcoming. Malik is used to that though, and it had never stopped her when she was a fresh Novice. It will not stop her now. "What troubles you, Brothers?"

.

.

Malik does not think to be awkward about waking with Altair until later as the last rays of the sun disappear from the sky and torches are lit.

"I have worn a great many strange things upon being chased from a bed, but I think you may have me bested in that area for once," Aban says as he finds her between her 'talks'. His grin is bright and vivid against the bruising of his skin that is looking worse as the skin turns colors. His voice is suggestive beyond belief as he fingers the too long sleeves of the robe she wears.

"Save that tone for your lovers, Aban," Malik is not amused by the insinuations and doesn't rise to the teasing. "I was not looking forward to sleeping on those stone cots, and I would not need to borrow clothing if your mother had not done away with my own."

"I thought she would clean them, not declare them lost to mankind," Aban says with a shrug as he falls into step beside her. Still blatantly staring at what she's wearing. "That is Altair's clothing, yes?"

Malik doesn't reply because Aban's fishing for something, and he will get to the point eventually.

"Used to be you would rather throw yourself off a tower with not hay at the bottom to catch you than spend time with Altair, and now you are stealing his clothing?" Aban grins and waves one hand grandly. "And I am putting aside the time you would have happily thrown _him_ off a tower and into a pile of rusted swords."

"I could have walked around without the robes," Malik points out in exasperation. "Would that have been better or worse do you think?"

"Hm," Aban holds out both of his hands and acts like he is weighing both options. "It would have gained you more sympathy with the idiots you've been clashing with this past hour or so, but the women in the market would have burned their ears off with their talk of you and Altair."

"Have they nothing else to talk about?" Malik asks because even with the bloody events of the prior day, they would chose to focus on something completely irrelevant.

"Bah! Nothing that is as interesting as the two of you stumbling down to eat together."

"There is nothing there to speak of," Malik stops because there are a group of Novices ahead, and she refuses to allow this talk to reach their ears. They're too young to know better, and would repeat it.

"You truly believe that, don't you?" Aban says with a smile she doesn't like. He shakes his head quickly though. "That does not concern me though. I am more concerned with the fact you were within arm's reach of Altair for an extended period of time and failed to stab him."

"I have no reason to," Malik says and then continues because Aban has heard more than anyone else the fate she had wished on Altair when she was still very bitter and filled with anger, "Not anymore. Believe me when I say that Altair has changed, and I hold no more anger for him."

"High praise coming from you," Aban says after a long pause. He sighs and shakes his head wearily. "I would not believe those words from anyone else but you Malik. I hope you know this. Your word and support of Altair has played no small part in how our Brothers have accepted this- This whole matter."

"I don't just speak my words, Aban. I mean them as well," Malik holds her friend's gaze until he nods. Reluctant but accepting.

.

.

When Hamid finds her she's setting the broken nose of a man she has never met before. He has the grace to look ashamed though as she lectures him on his poorly thrown punch. "You'll do more damage to yourself than others if you let anger lead you like that, Brother."

"Yes, Dai," the man is thoroughly humiliated, but she will take that over the anger he had been showing when she first spoke to him. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Malik steps back and observes him critically. His nose will forever be crooked, but that might actually be an improvement to his face. "Think nothing more of it."

"You are being exceptionally charitable," Hamid remarks as the man slinks away. He's amused and looks a good deal better in fresh clothing and balancing on an actual crutch. "In your own violent way I suppose. I have been hearing nothing more than talk about how you've been starting and ending fights all day long."

"Lies, it has not been all day. I woke not all that long ago," Malik responds and watches Hamid move. His limp is far more pronounced and she wonders if that is only due to the wound, or if it will be the way things are for him now. She hopes it is just the wound.

"As did Altair, I believe," Hamid smiles and there's more than a bit of teasing in it. "Strange coincidence."

"Not you as well," Malik mutters and casts about before locating a bench. She smiles at his sour look as she steers them both to it. "You need to either stop talking to Aban or stop flirting with the old women in the market."

Hamid turns a relieved sigh as he sits into a snort. "I have done neither of those things. The council has had me holed up with them all day debating who is best fit to fill the hole we are left with."

"Who has been chosen?" Malik asks because it's unlikely Hamid would have been released until a decision was made.

"You shall see," Hamid says and then fixes her with a stern look that still makes her want to shrink in on herself a little. "And do not think that you will be steering me off this trail so easily. Last we spoke you still wanted Altair's blood, and now you defend him and call him Brother with an ease I've never heard from you before. It is an abrupt change, Malik."

"Altair is not the same," Malik sighs and wearily wonders how many more times she will have to repeat this. Given how loud her anger had been, it will probably take years. "I cannot hold such anger for a man who did not walk into that mission with me."

"It was not easy, was it?" Hamid asks. "Forgiving," he adds when she turns to face him.

"No," Malik agrees and looks to the wall opposite them. The hall is dark, though a Novice walks down it lighting a few lanterns. "But I felt, I _feel_ better for it."

Hamid is distant until the Novice has come and gone. Eyes far away and unaccountably sad. Malik wonders who it is he thinks of, and what it is he never forgave them for.

"You asked who would be the next Master," Hamid shakes the distance off and turns back to her. His ever ready smile banishing the last of his reminiscence. "Would you like to know who was picked now?"

.

.

There's no sound when she knocks, and Altair is not in the room when she lets herself in. There's a set of black robes on the bed elaborately embroidered. New ones thankfully. Malik picks at them and tries to imagine Altair in them for a moment. It's an absurd thought for all that she thinks it possible.

Malik steps up to the window and let's herself out. The climb is steeper than she remembers but easy enough to make. There is no sign of Altair still so Malik casts her sight higher to the towers. None look occupied but that means little. Malik makes for the closest one. Leaping over gaps and slanted areas that she hasn't traveled in what feels like ages.

She's slower and that can't be helped, but it's rare that she is called on to for her speed these days. The towers were made with climbing in mind, and Malik has little problem reaching the top. "That is disappointing."

Altair's head tilts to the side, but he doesn't move otherwise from his crouch on the far side of the tower.

"I was expecting to find you in the last tower I searched not the first," Malik pulls herself up onto a beam and walks over to stand behind him, to look out over the city. "The city buzzes with rumors of your plans to secure the highest position in the Order, but I know too well that 'plan' is an overly strong word when it comes to anything you do."

"I do not want it," Altair says, and he sounds just the slightest bit aggrieved by it. "But their arguments…."

"They have their reasons I suppose," Malik pushes the toe of her boot into the small of Altair's back. Pushing experimentally until Altair's fingers curl around the ledge and he turns enough to glare at her. "They may be overly optimistic in their choosing, but I do not think they've made the wrong choice."

"Do you really believe that? Knowing what you know of me?" Altair demands, a little desperately.

"I do," Malik does not hesitate to reply. A wind blows up to them, and Malik watches the lights below flicker. Some go out and only a few are relit. "Did I not say that just the other day? I know you have problems listening at times, but you should really learn to pay attention more now that you will be leading us."

Altair doesn't look eased or annoyed. Malik had been going for either emotion really. "I can't-"

"I will push you off this tower if you finish that sentence!" Malik snaps and takes a small step forward to emphasize the threat. "You _can_. The mere fact that you are questioning your own fitness for the role makes you far more fit for being Grandmaster than any of the others I have heard put forth."

"Even you?" Altair asks as his lips curl up in a grin.

"I would kill anyone who tried to put me in charge," Malik means it. She has had her fill with the role of Dai, she _can_ handle the position, but she does not _want_ to. "I am afraid you will have to shoulder this burden yourself my friend."

"When I said I can't, I was not talking of becoming Mentor," Altair says as he rolls up onto his feet. Body blocking out the lights from the city. The move throws his face into shadow and she can't see him as he continues, "I was going to say I can't do this alone. I do not think it is a role that _should_ be taken on alone. It is one of the reasons why Al Mualim got as far as he did I think," Altair's head shakes sharply. "Would you stay by my side to help me, Malik?"

She is not surprised, though she thinks she will miss Jerusalem. It is not much of a choice though. Not after all she has learned. Both of their enemy —more organized and real than they had been taught— and this new Altair who she calls friend. Malik will leave her post and work with him, for the betterment of the Brotherhood.

"Well," Malik eventually says, turning away and walking back along the beam to hide her smile for a moment. "Someone will have to save the Brotherhood from your planning. I suppose I shall have to shoulder that burden myself."

.

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	28. Chapter 28

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

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* * *

.

Nizar calls on her and Malik finds him pale but healing on a cot she is all too familiar with. Slightly softer than the others in the infirmary and set aside for those whose stay will be longer. The bandages on his chest are fresh and Jalal is not overly concerned from what little she manages to drag from the old man before he's called away to tend a few battered Novices.

"Is it true?" Nizar demands as she pulls up a low stool, not waiting for any of the normal niceties. "Are they appointing Altair as Master?"

"Yes," Malik says and she had not thought she would have this talk with anyone who had escaped being a thrall. Nizar's face is dark though, and anger spreads all over his face.

When he speaks, it's low and he's forcing himself to go slow. Pain chasing the anger away when he forgets himself. "And you accept this? After all he has done to you."

If it were not for his serious wounds the man would be shouting, and Malik would be shouting right back.

"I trust he is best for the role because of _all_ he has done, and all that he has learned from his mistakes," Malik remembers Aban telling her so long ago about the men who had held her down while her arm was removed. Nizar had been one of them, and she wonders now how badly that had effected his viewing of her. She still tends to view him as the stubborn ass of a Novice who had never made it secret he disliked her entire gender. Malik sees none of that now in the gaze fixed on her. Firm and slightly feverish.

Malik reaches out and places her hand where the bandages are lightest, pressing slightly. "Hold true to the Creed, and allow Altair the chance to prove himself."

"Will he?" Nizar asks and his eyes are drooping with exhaustion now. The anger having bled slowly from him.

"He will," Malik answers confidently and it's the last words Nizar hears as he slips into a healing sleep.

"He will not be fit for the missions of Assassins any longer," Jalal stops her before she can leave. The Novices deemed well enough to suffer the effects of their wounds for a moment. "I will not know how his chest and lungs are effected until he heals more, but I am certain of this."

"Fever creeps upon him," Malik remembers that uncertain time all too well, and how few things has truly stuck with her until it passed. Nizar rests easily enough but it won't last for long. Jalal has apprentices enough to handle the man though. "There is no point in informing him of this until it passes, he will not remember it. I will speak to him when it breaks."

"Few Assassins take it well," Jalal's gaze is sharp and Malik needs no reminder of that.

"The role of the Rafiq is just as important, he will learn that," even if it will be with reluctance and bitterness. Once Nizar sees what is expected of him, he will settle. "We need more men who have experience with all the roles of the Brotherhood."

The Brotherhood needs a lot of things, and Malik realizes -as she leaves and the Novices bow their heads in respect- that she is going to be one of those responsible for making sure they have those things. It's an almost unsettling revelation, and Malik has to let it settle in her mind. Altair's white robes move around her and Malik knows the first thing she needs to do. She goes to find clothing that actually fits. Both her figure and her rank.

.

.

Altair is appointed in a ceremony that is small and humble. The main focus is on the funerals held after, on all those they must bury. The people who resisted the Apple's call and were cut down by those they trusted most, and those under thrall whose deaths had been unavoidable. The grief is thick and Altair's head bows in a mixture of respect and his own grief for his part in it all.

Malik stands to his side, respectfully silent, but her head held high. Eyes tracking the gathering of civilians and Brothers. She observes their reactions and looks for -and finds to easily- the signs of resentment aimed his way. Malik notes each one grimly. Adds names and faces to a list of things that need to fixed.

Her list grows as the day continues on.

.

.

"If I do not go back to Jerusalem, we might lose the city," Malik notes one night. It's far too late to be awake but unraveling all of Al Mualim's dealings is not an easy task. "It needs to be properly handed over to someone else."

"Who?" Altair asks as he scrubs both of his hands over his face hard. The robes that have started to become familiar on his frame discarded as they finish with what is hopefully the last of his correspondences. Learning of contacts and allies none knew were available. Some of them who might still be of use. "Jerusalem is set to be contested by Richard and Salahuddin's armies soon enough if they don't find peace. We will need someone with much experience running a Bureau to take it."

No one in Masyaf then. Hamid is all they have, but his work with the ranks of Rafiq and Dai finding all of Al Mualim's records and writings is too important still. His eye needed to recognize the man's writing, but it is his loyalty that they need the most. Already they have found two men who hoarded the old Master's secrets to themselves instead of sharing them. Whether to try and use it for themselves or not is still to be determined.

That leaves them with the men they have already placed in different cities. Malik considers Jabal but Acre is still a Crusader stronghold, and their presences sorely needed there. "Zafir," Malik eventually concludes. "Damascus is stable, we can send an untested Rafiq to take his place. Wajdi," Malik says after a few too many minutes searching for a name she knows. Her own tiredness making her mind slow.

"Wajdi," Altair repeats, his hand pressed to his eyes again, and obviously the name means very little to him. It seems to take him even longer to place the name than it did her. "With the," Altair circles a finger around his neck. Vaguely in the area where the Rafiq has a series of unfortunate dark growths of skin.

"Yes," Malik looks back down at the papers they've been pouring over and sets the one she has been holding down. The words and her hand blurring in her eyes. "In the morning though. I am tired enough I am beginning to think I have two arms again."

Altair makes a noise but there's no amusement in it. Malik leans back from the desk and fixes him with a look that she fears isn't as stern as she wants it to be. "Most people would think that mildly amusing."

"There is _nothing_ amusing in your loss," Altair says, voice low with the guilt she is getting tired of. She sees it in his eyes almost daily as they work together shoring up the Brotherhood, and she's starting to get tired of it.

Pity and guilt go hand in hand all too often.

"Would you have me languish in despair instead?" Malik asks and watches Altair flinch under her glare. She's too tired for this though. Malik shakes her head and rise to her feet as Altair's jaw works, as he tries to find words that would be difficult for him to find even were he well rested. "In the morning," she repeats though she means more than just the reassignments. "We are overly tired and need rest."

"I'm sorry," Altair's words follow her out of the study that is now his, and Malik lets them dissipate into the night without anger or resentment. They are the last time he will utter them for this matter. She will make sure of that.

.

.

The sun is up when Malik leaves her rooms, still tired but rested enough. The training arena is no doubt being used, but the advantage of being Mentor is that the Gardens are now open for use to Altair. The women give up their own practice arena easily enough when she asks, and retire to their rooms which are kept separate from the rest of the citadel for good reason. She doubts they will keep their eyes there as well, but that matters less than having the garden free.

Altair keeps the room he has always had, and Malik finds him there dead to the world. He does not stir in the slightest even as she walks in. "Altair."

He doesn't move and she wonders if it's the exhaustion or if he is simply that deep a sleeper when safe. She knows he sleeps lightly on missions, but little else. Malik reaches down to pull at a foot partially sticking out from the blanket. He moves and makes an indistinct noise that makes her snort before she _yanks_, "Altair!"

It is almost adorable the way Altair comes awake as she pulls him partially off the bed. Reluctantly and with great affront that he shares with her in a slur of words that is almost intelligible.

"Get up," Malik releases his foot and goes to his clothing. There's a second chest for the new clothing against the far wall, but Malik goes for the one that hasn't moved. He still has his white robes and Malik throws one at his head before moving to pick up his sword as well. Altair is glaring at his robes when she drops it on his head as well. "The Gardens, Altair. I will make you pay if I have to wait overly long."

She graciously ignores his protests as she strides out.

.

.

Malik should have done this far sooner than now.

Altair pulls his blows and ignores all openings on her left side. No matter how obvious she makes them, and it was the right thing to do to wait to address this in the morning. Without the tiredness holding her back she has full access to the anger that wells up. She uses it and lashes out after Altair fails to exploit an opening large enough to ride a horse through. It knocks him back two steps and Malik pushes forward. Doing something stupid and locking blades with him. Turning the spar into a battle of strength and leverage. Both things she should not have the advantage in.

"I will say this once only," Malik snakes a foot around Altair's leg and pulls. Using their locked blades to throw him to the ground. She doesn't let up. Follows him down and twists so that his sword flies out of his hands before bringing her sword down. The sharp edge pricking threateningly against his exposed throat. "I am _not_ helpless, nor a complete invalid. Treat me as such and you _will_ regret it."

Red beads up slowly under the edge of her sword but Malik doesn't back off from the minor cut. She locks eyes with Altair who looks stunned.

"I do not tolerate pity, and I will not be treated as something less than I am. I never have before and if I must add a scar to the other side of your face to get this one fact through your hard head I will," the stunned look is fading but there's nothing replacing it that Malik can read. "I _forgive_ you. Is that what you need to hear to stop being so insufferable? Will you force me to repeat myself, or accept this?"

"I-"

"I cannot promise my one _weak_ arm won't slip if you try apologizing again," Malik cuts in quickly.

"Get off me, Malik," Altair says and the hint of irritation is a good sign.

Malik gets to her feet and rolls her shoulder to ease the muscle that had tensed from the brief fight. Altair rolls and gets on his feet. Going for his sword. He wipes the line of blood from his neck before turning back to her. His eyes narrowed and still a little irritated as he brings his sword up and starts to circle.

When he attacks, he doesn't hold anything back at all.

.

.


	29. Chapter 29

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Supposedly Bloodlines takes place _one_ month after AC1 ends. To get Maria in and bearing babies quickly I suppose, but it makes zero sense for Altair rebuilding the Order. One month is not long enough to make it stable enough he can go running off to Cyprus. I added a few more months here, but not too many. Malik has to have something to bitch about after all.

.

* * *

.

"Malik!" Zafir is enthusiastic in his greetings as usual. Malik finds it less grating than she has in the past though. "Safety and peace."

"And on you as well," Malik extracts herself from his hold and casts an eye over the men bringing in crates and baskets. They're large and obviously heavy. She would not be surprised if the man has dismantled his entire workshop and had it brought with him. "Do you have all that you need?"

"Most of it," Zafir says with a dismissive wave of his hands. He watches carefully as a few crates are brought in and stacked against the far wall. "I am afraid I will have to wait for a caravan to arrive next month before I can begin to work in earnest again."

There's very little left to be done. Zafir is an experienced Rafiq, and she had already introduced him to her network of informants just a few weeks before. Gone over the inventory with him, and cleared out the things she will be taking back to Masyaf with her. It has just been a waiting game for the man to be able to fully take over her position.

"If there is nothing else you need, Brother," Malik trails off to allow him a chance to say something. The day is still early, and she fears the mess she will find when she arrives back in Masyaf.

"Ah, yes, you want to return to Masyaf! Good," Zafir grins and starts to look around at the men moving things instead of the crates. "Now where is- Tazim! That boy should be, ah, there you are!"

A young boy winds through the men and comes up to Zafir. Very young, or just very small. He shrinks a little on himself the second he catches sight of her, "Dai."

"This is Tazim," Zafir claps the boy on his shoulder and Malik watches the child flinch the tiniest bit. "If it is not too much trouble, would you take him with you? He is set to begin training."

Hamid has been pushing to begin training younger, and Tazim looks like he may be at just the right age for it. He also looks like he weighs less than her pack, and should not add much more stress. "No problem at all. Do you need anything, Tazim?"

"No, Dai!" Tazim is quick to assure, excitement ripples across his face, and he darts away again.

"Excitable," Malik says before turning back to Zafir. "Just him then?"

"Yes, he has no family, and he shows promise," Zafir is watching his crates again, and Malik wonders how many fragile items are in them. "You should ask him why he wishes to become an Assassin on your trip."

"I'll do that," Malik agrees and slips away as one of crates starts to wobble and Zafir darts forward to save it.

.

.

Tazim sits on the saddle in front of her. He goes from excited to nervous in a wild shift of mood that begins to make the horse nervous. Malik asks the question as a way to distract him more than anything else, "Why have you decided to join the Brotherhood, Tazim?"

"I want to, Dai," Tazim says, he twists to look up at her.

"Hm, yes, but why do you want to, Tazim?" Malik prods as they come up on an outpost. She can see smoke from cooking fires already, and slows the horse to a walk that won't draw attention. She notes the location to spread the word that it's being manned again. "There should be more than just want to make you chose this."

"Because you saved my life," Tazim says promptly before he shrinks down on himself again. Nervous and _shy_ all of a sudden. "You and the Master. The new Master."

"Ah," Malik blinks down at the boy and still does not recognize him at all. Understandable, she had been more preoccupied with getting him to safety. "I did not recognize you without all the blood covering you, Tazim."

"The bruises may have reminded you, but they healed quickly," Tazim grins and it's a cheeky thing that Aban is going to absolutely _love_. Malik will have to keep an eye on the boy to make sure her friend is not corrupting him too badly.

"Perhaps, now keep your head down and pay attention," Malik lowers her own head as she feels the prickling of Crusader eyes. "This, despite what some may try to tell you, is how we travel. Slowly and without drawing any attention at all."

.

.

"Masyaf still stands, I am impressed," Malik says when she walks into Altair's study. Tazim in the debatable safety of Aban's hands.

The man is slouched over his desk and his obvious irritation melts away quickly. "Malik, welcome back."

"The Novices are huddled at the end of the hall drawing straws to see who should be the unlucky one to interrupt you for your meal," Malik sets down the tray she had liberated from the relieved boys. "What has you in such a foul mood?"

"What does not would be a quicker answer," Altair grumps and Malik grins as she is assaulted with an image of what the man will be like when he grows too old to do more than sit and argue with those younger than him. Hamid is entering that stage in his life and he takes great pleasure in heckling Novices and young Assassins. She does not think either man would appreciate the comparison though.

Malik looks over the papers he was frowning at as he attacks his meal. Inquiries from some of those they had thought would remain loyal to the Order over Al Mualim. Cautious words that don't commit to anything, but open a door to more conversation. Over this are smaller notes that must have come by pigeon. All with Jabal's distinctive script on it. "Acre is not doing well I take it."

"The Templars are pulling out," Altair pulls out a slightly longer missive nearly black with tightly written words. Malik squints at it and tilts it toward the window to make out Jabal's report. "Ships fill the docks and they tear the city apart to take what they can with them. I've sent who we can spare to Jabal to deny them their wish as much as possible."

"Hm," Malik drops the report and pulls one of the heavy chairs close to sit. "I see no problem with harrying them out of Acre, the further they are from us the better."

"No," Altair denies immediately. "They remain out enemy, and I do not like them being out of sight to plan against us. They are not an enemy we should lose sight of, Malik."

"Surely it shouldn't be much problem to find their location?" Malik muses, all of the Crusaders are prone to talking. Their arrogance in believing none know their language a mistake they exploit constantly.

"Jabal has not found it yet," the tray is nearly spotless and Malik wonders when the man last ate. If his mood started this dark then it's likely he hadn't eaten at all. A wonderful way to improve his mood even further. "If he does not stop sending pigeons he'll run out of them before he can find that out. How is Jerusalem?"

"As quiet as it gets," Malik gathers the papers up and sorts them into the piles Altair always neglects. She can get one of the younger apprentices from the library to sort and catalog them. Altair will try to do the entire thing himself if left to his own devices. Delegation a foreign concept that she is still slowly beating into him. "Zafir will be sending pots to Masyaf within the month I think."

"What use do we have for so many?" Altair mutters. Malik has seen the rows of them stacked in his room. All small, and largely unused.

"Jalal needs them," Malik points out, because she left the few she could not get away without receiving with the older man. "He uses them for salves, and few remember to bring them back. He always needs more."

Altair blinks and looks intrigued by her answer. Malik doesn't think she'll see those pots again.

"What else have you thought about with the Templar retreat?" Malik prods them back on track because he is right to worry about their enemy lurking out of sight. Especially ones that have proven as troublesome as the Templars.

"We need information," Altair taps the pile closest to her. "Much of this is speculation, I may need to travel there myself to find out what we need."

Altair says it nonchalantly. As if he is talking of strolling down to the market for a litle while. There's a gleam in his eyes that Malik is not fooled by though. "It's a bit early for the Master to be gone from Masyaf."

"Masyaf can stand for a week," Altair counters and that gleam grows.

Malik knew this would happen eventually. Altair has never done well with inaction. His missions have always kept him busy and traveling from the moment he gained his first Assassin rank. Al Mualim easing his restlessness with missions far above whatever rank Altair had. She has been waiting for that same restlessness to show up again. He has lasted longer than she expected. The troubles of settling the Order and healing from his battles enough to placate him for the past few months.

"I suppose," Malik is careful to appear reluctant at the admission. It is inevitable that Altair will find an excuse to leave, but it won't do to make him think he can get away with it too often. "But you are not leaving until this," Malik waves her hand over the pile of papers, "has been explained to me."

Some of the light dims in Altair's eyes as he looks irritated again, but he begins to talk.

.

.

"I will _kill_ you," Malik says when she accepts the fact that Altair is serious about taking off for parts unknown for an unspecified amount of time.

Altair smiles, and Malik almost jumps over the desk to follow through with her threat right then and there. Witnesses be damned. "I worked to make sure the Order will survive, it can stand on its own without me for a while. Nothing bad can happen with you here to watch it after all."

"It has been a _month_," Malik hisses and holds up the ink stained quill she's been using. The man has already changed out of his black robes and into the normal attire of a Master Assassin. "I will stab you with this and use your blood to finish this treaty, Altair."

"A ship is waiting at Acre," Altair continues to explain with no fear at all. "The Templar we hold hostage will lead us to their new Master, and their secrets. If we find this we will have the upper hand."

"There's a horse waiting at the gate isn't there?" Malik growls. The scholars and Rafiqs who supervise them are staring with amusement rolling off their poorly hidden whispers. "Aban is holding it for you. I will skin him and use his fat to make the wax to seal this."

"I will write," Altair is outright _grinning_ now as he slowly shifts his weight onto his back foot. Malik is marginally aware of the unsubtle stares of the Novices gaping at their Grandmaster as he shirks his duties and dumps them onto her. "And keep you appraised of my missions, Master."

"Altair," Malik warns as she slowly rises even though it's already a lost cause. Altair edges back for every move she makes. Legs tense and grin growing recklessly wider. "Run."

Altair runs.

.

.


	30. Chapter 30

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

.

* * *

.

Jabal reports Altair's leaving to Cyprus with a group of Assassins and a hostage. A Templar woman. Malik is fairly sure she knows that one -there can't have been more than the one- and is vexed to find that she has survived so long. The location Jabal provides stirs something in Malik's memory though, and she goes through the records they've built up. Al Mualim's personal correspondences largely come from the island.

She compiles the names and send them to Jabal. There's no guarantee that the information will reach Altair. Their contacts on the island are near to nonexistent, but it is worth trying. She doesn't have much time to do anything more before the inevitable demands of the Order take all her attention.

.

.

"When did _this_ happen?" Malik asks when she finds Aban holding a tiny, wrinkled sack of a baby with far more care than she has ever seen him handle his nieces and nephews. "Were you finally caught sneaking out of the bed of someone's daughter?"

"Yes, but this is not from that episode," Aban says cheerfully as he rocks slightly on his feet. The babe asleep and looking perfectly content in a way Malik hasn't seen since Kadar was first born. The child is only a few months old then. "Mother is happy. I think she assumes this will settle me down."

"And what of the mother?" Malik asks with a raised eyebrow, because much as Aban loves children he is still a Master Assassin and his work won't wait for his son to grow. "Tell me you married the poor woman at least."

"I did. She loves Masyaf, or perhaps she just loves being away from her family," Aban clucks a little as the baby stirs. The sound seems to settle the stirring as the child doesn't wake. "Asra never liked being told what to do, or who to do it with. She much prefers it here where _everything is permitted_."

"Asra," Malik sighs and shakes her head though she really should have known better. Aban, for all his gossiping, was never one to come up with stories or lies on the spot. "And does she know you lent me her name before?"

"Maybe," Aban frowns thoughtfully. "I can't really remember if I told her about that or not. She really wouldn't mind though if I were to explain the circumstances to her. In fact," Aban's frown turns into a sly grin, "she would not mind if you borrowed other things from her as well."

Malik shakes her head again and cautiously pokes the cheek of the baby. The skin is soft and warm with a bit of fuzzy hair giving them a soft look. "Your offer is properly appalling, but I thank you for being so worried about my love life. You really shouldn't concern yourself there anymore."

Malik doesn't have one anymore, and she won't for a good long time. Perhaps not ever again. Few who would look at her care to stick around when it becomes clear she has one arm. The missing limb a silent taboo that kills all interest immediately. She tried, once. It is an episode she does not allow herself to think on.

It's a fact that Malik has grown, if not used to, then at least resigned to. Her own hand is sufficient for her.

"Ah? Truly?" Aban's grin grow wider and he almost laughs clearly interpreting her words differently than she meant them. "I knew it! Rauf owes me now. He's the one who spoke so strongly about Altair being a changed man, but he still did not think him changed enough to say a word for another year at least."

Betting again. Malik thinks the only time she's heard the older man speak is when he is berating Aban for his failure to adhere to the family's religion.

"Something else for your father to be upset about?" Malik blinks and frowns at Aban, the rest of his words not making one bit of sense for all that she knows the meaning of them individually. The implications though bring her back to that morning months ago, and Malik despairs of Aban ever fully letting that go now. "What rumors have you been spreading around now?"

"It was only a little, friendly wager, Malik," Aban protests on seeing her frown. "If anything, you should be more angry at the scholars."

"I don't care to think about the various rumors that anyone else talks about," Malik sighs. For all the years she has been in the Order, it seems only now that people have become overly interested in her love life. Specifically, in the nonexistent relationship between her and Altair. It irks her that people would think it, but she cannot completely control their tongues or minds despite her best efforts. "I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop spreading false stories though."

"False," Aban repeats almost a question. Before Malik can hit him the child stirs and no clucking settles the little one.

"What is the child's name?" Malik asks belatedly. Her shock over the presence of the child having knocked the wondering out of her mind.

"Ah," Aban shifts the babe in his arm as it's little face creases in displeasure. He looks faintly embarrassed as he tells her, "Kadar."

"Oh," Malik blinks at the boy dumbly. Words drying up even as the child begins to throw a bit of a fit. Tiny upset noises falling from his lips, and dark eyes squinting angrily up at his father. "He would have laughed I think."

"Yes," Aban grins, bouncing the boy slightly to mollify him. "Louder I think if Asra had agreed to name him after you."

"Idiot," Malik doesn't hit him out of respect for the child, but she shoves him around. "Go find his mother before he begins to really cry. Already I can tell this one will have your appetite."

.

.

Malik had never lacked for lovers before. Dima and Basir not the only ones she took to bed over her life. Men and women both, Malik had found it easy to find what she was looking for when she wanted it. An eye that lingered blatantly in men, or the way a woman's skin would flush and eyes drop. Signs that let her know an advance on her part would not be rejected.

Signs that dried up after she lost her arm. She is stared at blatantly, but it is always the empty are of her left arm the men see. The women still flush and drop their eyes, but they're filled with pity when Malik dares to look closer. The religious see her missing arm as a sign from god that she is being punished and steer clear of her. Those less inclined to strict religious observances fare no better, looking on her as a curious cripple. In her time in Jerusalem, the few times she went out without her fake arm, she'd been treated no better than the lepers and mad men who wandered the streets.

Sex has been a solo act for a good long while, and Malik prefers it that way. Her one hand sufficient enough to bring her pleasure without having to deal with the pity or loathing in a potential lover's eyes. Hard and bright when the remains of her left arm is exposed.

It is one battle that Malik has never tried to win.

.

.

Malik is shocked when a proper letter arrives. It's not one of the dozen hastily scrawled notes she's received by pigeon, but an actual packet of paper where it is obvious Altair took the time to sit down and _write_ his thoughts out. His script is almost flawless, andy scribe would admire it. Malik would believe him to be dictating his words to one if it were not for the fact that she is familiar with his writing already from their work to restore the Order. She has seen this writing countless times, and had simply assumed Altair had been making use of one of the scholars or scribes in the library.

Not so, apparently.

Altair is also a great deal more articulate in writing than he is with words, and Malik is amused to note this letter contains enough words in it to make up an entire week of conversation between them. _Deep_ conversation because after Altair is done reporting the facts of his travels he begins to simply talk. Of his thoughts, his feelings, and his apprehensions. There is no trace of hesitation between his last words on the matter of Cyprus and his misgivings about using his Templar hostage the way he is. No sign that he thought better of putting these doubts to paper for her to read. Not like there would have been if he stood before her and spoke them.

For all that Altair will do that these days, there's still traces of hesitation when he speaks to her of anything personal. Malik had thought it a holdover from the days when any sign of weakness like that would be exploited ruthlessly by the other, but now may just be that he has problems with the words.

It's an interesting revelation, and it does very little to decrease her annoyance at being left with the run of the Order.

.

.

The letters continue, and Malik tracks his course. Taking note of the changing tide of rulership of the island with interest. She begins to arrange more people to be sent to Acre in preparation of further retreat by the Templars. Altair has set his eyes on this Archive of theirs and Malik is sure that he will tear the entire Templar order apart to reach it.

"A Templar," Hamid repeats as he smooths out the latest letter from Altair. As if the action of touching the parchment will change the words inked on it.

"A former Templar," Malik corrects, a headache well on it's way to settling behind her eyes. "Allegedly."

"Altair is not given to easily trusting people," Hamid eventually points out after they've both taken several minutes to fully appreciate this newest complication.

"Neither is the Brotherhood," Malik can't help saying. Abbas has been annoyingly vocal lately. His insinuations frustratingly hard for Malik to counter head on. The man's hatred of Altair not having flagged in the slightest, and now extending beyond the man through resentment. Few agree with him, but it's worrying how many seem to listen to him regardless. "The worst of the whispers about Altair have just died and now he expects to bring one who was our enemy for so long in without starting them back up again?"

"It does sound like something he would do, yes," Hamid smiles reluctantly, because he has been the one dealing most with those whispers while Malik has been handling running the Order. His presence going places she has not been able to go, hearing things she hasn't had the chance to listen to. "You must admit that life is never dull with him around."

"You speak as if the life of an Assassin is dull to begin with," Malik watches as Hamid works his way out of the padded chair she insisted be brought to the study for him. Using the arms and his now permanently in hand cane. The wound has healed, but the damage done to the muscle has combined badly with the damage done to his bones so long ago.

"It can be," Hamid smiles easily as he nods to the reports she still needs to read, which will multiply before she's done. "I will leave you to it, and see about spreading some whispers of our own to counteract this."

.

.


	31. Chapter 31

**Living Despite It All  
**

**A Word: **Ibid.

.

* * *

.

Tazim is quick to bring her the news when Altair's small group is spotted. Several miles out still.

Malik has a bit of time to decide the first thing she is going to hurl at Altair. Words or weapons. She isn't entirely sure which even after several months of debating the merits of both, but she has some time to decide yet. Malik finishes reading a report from the Rafiq in Damascus and makes a note to schedule a shipment of weaponry to be sent to him. The market in Damascus is not holding up to their expectations, too many weapons have failed on them from there.

She decides that both words and knives have their place. Words because he cannot duck them, and they will not harm the Brothers -Malik is still unsure of this 'former' Templar woman and doesn't care much just yet- he is coming back with. Only if he comes in through the study door though.

After sorting the reports Malik rises and goes to look for the blunted throwing knives she had kept from Jerusalem. Because this is Altair, and he is every bit as likely to come in through the window as the door. Malik has no problems with the idea of throwing weaponry at the idiot if he comes in alone that way.

.

.

Maria Thorpe eyes Malik blatantly. The Templar has been wandering Masyaf freely much to the suspicion of many despite Hamid's advance work and Altair's assurances. The words of her defection not enough for those who still remember all too well the attacks carried out on Masyaf. Maria carries herself with pride and ignores all the stars and whispers.

Malik is reluctantly impressed even before the woman seeks her out.

"So, you are the one," Maria says, her words accented but far more understandable than most of the Crusaders Malik has dealt with. The few who bothered to learn any language other than their own that is. "Is this all that you do?"

She waves her hand over the reports Malik has been combing through. Stolen from a Templar stronghold, so Malik feels little threat in Maria's eyes. She raises an eyebrow and leans back to look up at the woman, "It is the majority of it, yes. Why do you ask?"

Maria shrugs and her right hand drifts down to tap at the sword by her side. She doesn't wear the armor or colors of the Templars anymore, but her weapons are the same. "I would ask one of yours to face me in the arena, but I think they would take too much pleasure in trying to best me. Altair has also warned me against maiming any of them."

"Maiming is to be avoided at all costs," Malik agrees and sits back from the desk considering. Maria is largely still a mystery to Malik for all that Altair has spoken about the women in great length. Explaining himself and his decisions over and over again until Malik almost thought the man was working his way to telling her he'd done something unaccountably stupid. Like marry the woman. "But there is an entire world of pain and easily healed injuries that can be useful instead."

"I have never had use for nonfatal techniques," Maria admits, but there is no sneer in her voice. Her eyes gleam as she smiles charmingly. "Would you teach me?"

"I can spare a bit of time," Malik rises and stretches the kinks from her back before nodding at the other woman. "Let me retrieve a few things, I will meet you in the courtyard."

.

.

Maria is a hard woman who knows what she wants, and is very willing to do what she needs to do to get it. She fights with a viciousness that Malik knows well. It's the same viciousness that Malik had used to fight her way up in the Order. The kind she used to _force_ respect and slowly let slide to the side as she needed it less and less. Maria speaks little of her time as a Templar in between their rounds of fighting, but it is enough for Malik to learn that even with this viciousness Maria had never gained much respect from her own people.

Malik learns a lot about the woman in that match that becomes a regular event between them at the end of the day. When the spectators have no reason to loiter around and _gape_ at the two women fighting. Those that do don't last long against their combined scorn, and it's amusing how quickly the men scamper away at their combined looks.

It's refreshing in a way to fight against another woman. The assumptions she's used to taking advantage of don't exist, and Maria does not feel any pity for her single arm. A holdover grudge, Maria freely admits, from their first meeting where Malik had the upper hand.

The woman becomes an open book, more and more of her character and past scrawling itself out for Malik to read with each spar. It's inevitable, really, that Malik finds herself liking Maria.

"Good to hear," Aban says with far more cheer than is warranted. Kadar safely away with Asra, a dark eyed woman that Malik still does not know how best to handle. Her attitude and cheekiness fitting far too well with Aban. The marriage is obviously a good match for him. "She seems like an intriguing woman to know."

"Aban, I am not enabling your wandering eye," Malik says as the Novices trip themselves over cut down staffs that are still too long for most of them. Tazim is covered in dirt but still stubbornly picks himself back up time and time again.

"Please do not insult me like that Malik. As if I would need help talking anyone into bed," Aban's grin is lecherous and Malik did not need to know that about Maria. "Besides, Asra is the one who helped best there."

Nor did she need to or want to know that either. "Your trust is inspiring, Aban, truly it is, but I would appreciate some thoughts on how to better mesh her with Masyaf in ways that do not involve your cock."

Aban is, as ever, unrepentant. "Time and action will speak louder than words. Anything can be accepted eventually."

"That does not solve the problems we have now," because with Altair's return Abbas has gotten more stubborn and vocal.

"It is all I have to offer," Aban shrugs and steps forward to set about finally correcting the flailing of the Novices. "I think you worry overmuch."

.

.

"I should be worried about this," Altair says one night as Malik thumbs a split on her knuckle and Maria grimaces as she hunches over her left side. Their staffs resting against the wooden fence surrounding the training arena. How long he's been watching is debatable.

"You should have worried a long time ago," Malik cracks her knuckles but the pain is minimal. Maria has been improving with her control. Malik considers setting her against Asif during the day when more people can watch. "It's far too late now. You only have yourself to blame for this."

"Do not let him fool you, Malik," Maria gathers up both of their staffs and ducks under the fence to put them away. "This is exactly what he has hoped for."

"And wish the pain of the two of you collaborating on myself?" Altair leans more fully on the fence, not concerned that his back is to Maria as he continues to face Malik. Eyes watching her carefully, almost questioningly, but Malik does not read minds and does not know what he's looking for. "I do not like pain that much to seek more of it."

Maria laughs and nods at Malik as she turns to head down to the city. "You could have fooled me, Altair."

Malik is missing a part of the conversation, and it sounds like an old one. Maria walks away without another word and Malik wonders if she lives with Aban and Asra now. The woman so rarely uses the quarters given to her in the citadel. Malik turns back to find Altair looking at her with narrowed eyes. "Something troubling you?"

"No," Altair says after a few seconds pause.

"You are a _terrible_ liar, Altair," Malik leans into the fence opposite him and smirks at him.

"Only sometimes," Altair denies. He looks over his shoulder, but Maria is long gone. "You both get along well."

"She is surprisingly easy to deal with," Malik allows generously. "Reasonable for a former Templar."

"I know," Altair agrees but he's troubled still, and Malik briefly considers retrieving one of the staffs to beat it out of him. He's being unusually unforthcoming with his troubles. "You spend a lot of time with her these days."

It's a comment fishing for more information, and Malik wonders at it. The rumors concerning Maria have been vicious. Speculation on how she managed to convince Altair to bring her to Masyaf brutal in a way that makes Malik's lips curl, though it only inspire humor in the woman in question. Her assurances that the rumors have very little on the ones she dealt with before. Given the arrangement she knows the woman has with Aban and Asra, Malik had dismissed them, but she wonders now just a bit at them again.

"Stop playing coy, it does not suit you at all," Malik folds her arm across her chest and taps at her left side.

"Are you lovers?" Altair asks, spiteful in the frankness she's forcing from him.

Malik laughs and the sound makes him bristle. The thought of Maria as a lover _deserves_ that response though. Maria is a beautiful enough woman, but there is no attraction between them. Nothing that Malik would find desirable in bed, and every sign that Maria feels the same.

"What a ridiculous idea," Malik manages when her laughter has died down. Altair still bristling though he calms some at her words. She wonders if maybe her initial idea of his attraction to Maria had been right after all, and that ends any amusement she might have felt. "Why so interested? Are you looking to try and take her on as a lover?"

Aban and Asra are free with their love and would not begrudge it of Maria, but Malik doesn't think the woman capable of handling more than the two she already has.

"No," Altair seems to find the idea humorous as well. His lips lifting in a wry smirk. "We do not work like that."

"Then why the sudden interest?" Malik asks as she ducks under the fence and starts walking. The sun is nearly gone and the courtyard almost too dark with no moon to light it.

"I cannot be curious?" Altair asks as he follows her. Awkward and lying again. Malik tilts her head and frowns, turning the question over in her mind but not finding what there is to be so curious about.

.

.

Maria throws her arms up in the air and mutters something in English to fast and low for Malik to understand. Tilting her head back as if seeking a patience she does not have herself.

"This is ridiculous!" The woman turns to Malik and there's something fiery in her gaze. "I do not know how or why, I have not been here to know all that everyone else seems to know and avoid. So, I see no reason not to be bluntly honest about this matter everyone is so studiously trying to avoid."

Malik looks at the woman warily, instinct telling her she will not like these next few moments. "Then be out with it."

"Altair is pathetically in love with you," Maria says simply, in the same tone of voice she had just used when talking about horses on their way to the courtyard. "To be perfectly honest, I have never seen a man so completely gone over a woman before as he is for you. It was amusing to watch in the beginning, but has only become painful when I realized you have not the first clue about it."

"You have been spending far too much time in Aban's company," Malik says when the words slow and Maria looks at her expectantly. The denial of rumors is immediate and instinctive by now.

"Aban does like to talk about it, yes, but I knew of this _before_ I even arrived in Masyaf," Maria says and crosses her arms over her chest. The brown robes she now wears are cut in the same style as the Assassins to conceal her weapons and armor, but the color almost makes her look like she should be at the market gossiping with the other women. "I know the look of a man in love, and he confessed easily enough without giving me your name. Though it took little thought to figure the who."

Malik still wants to deny, but Maria stands before her. Lips thinned and eyes stern in a way that means the woman is being very serious. She has a sense of humor, but Maria's jokes tend to fall flat and do not involve people's personal lives. The woman is, Malik has to accept, telling her what she thinks is the truth. "No," Malik shakes her head hard, as if shaking water from her ears, and that is what it feels like. Her hearing must be off. "That is not-"

"It is!" Maria cuts in, more tenacious than a dog with a bone. "Everyone can see it, Malik, the way he looks at you. Everyone but you, and no one has ever confronted you with this. Perhaps out of some misplaced respect for those things I still do not know, but I feel I have come to know you well enough to know you appreciate truth and honesty above all else."

Malik shakes her head, mind refusing to understand the rapid words.

"Watch him then," Maria says with an unconcerned shrug as she turns away. "Or, better yet, _ask_ him. The man cannot avoid a direct question, and this matter has remained unspoken too long I think."

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	32. Chapter 32

**Living Despite It All  
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**A Word: **Well, look at that. 32 chapters in and we finally see the AltMal.

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Malik does not make a habit of wanting things she cannot have.

Things difficult to obtain, yes, but not the things that she has no power to obtain. It is an exercise in futility, and Malik does not like wasting her efforts.

Malik has never wanted to be a man. For all that it would make her life easier, it is an impossible thing and she has never bothered with it. She has never bothered wishing for her arm and brother back. Both are irreparably gone, and while she can mourn her losses she has never wasted a moment wishing for the impossible.

Love and affection is something else she has never wanted. Not from those who do not hold it for her already. Neither is something that can be forced, so she does not seek it where it is not. Only accepts it when it finds her. Dima had made the first move, and Aban had indicated Basir's interest in her from the start. All her lovers have made some move, some indication of attraction first before Malik reached out. Said or done something to let her know a relationship -for a night or more- would be possible with them.

And those who had not? Malik had never bothered giving them more than a single appreciative glance. Never wished for more from them that what they felt.

Altair, for all that Maria said he is obvious, has never done or said a single thing to make her believe he held any sort of attraction for her. The possibility of it has never occurred to her, and Malik has lived knowing that every man she has worked with -even Aban- has had some small bit of it towards her. And that thought make her pause for half a moment to wonder before she shakes it off.

Altair is Altair, his reactions and reasonings reliable and familiar to her. He is one of the few people she has been closest to for most of her life. Missing anything so large from him is unthinkable. Maria is mistaken, has to be.

Malik paces her room slowly that night. Her conclusion not doing much to ease the way her mind continues to pick almost obsessively at the words.

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"The Templar woman is right," Hamid finds her early in the day, and does not look happy about it one bit as he almost stomps in like a child throwing a fit.

Malik feels herself freeze as she looks at the old man. Mind empty of any intelligent words to reply to that statement with. "What?"

Hamid sighs and it's an aggrieved sound that Malik knows is only brought out by Maria. The two of them not getting along for all that Hamid will speak up for her the quickest when any Brother questions her presence. That they seem to seek each other out so often just to _discuss_ things is something she will never truly understand.

He studies her closely now. Eyes looking deep for something and not finding it. "She was right. You truly do not know."

"Know what?" Malik feels the tenuous grip she has managed to gain on her spinning thoughts slip. "What is it that you both think I am supposed to know?!"

"Malik," Hamid's voice is firm and sharp. Calling for her silence without a word. "You know, Maria told you and it is true," Malik's mouth slowly closes. Hamid's words are undeniable. "I thought you knew, we all did, and that you were not interested."

"How?" Malik groans and sinks into the padded chair she had stolen from the study for her own room. The comfort appreciated when work kept her up late into the night.

"Really, little one," Hamid chides and there's a growing humor in his voice that she knows she will hear about for years to come. "For as old as you are, you have not yet learned that when a young boy takes a fancy to a girl his first reaction is to pick a fight?"

"Every Novice in my group picked a fight with me!"

"Exactly," Hamid is _smug_ sounding now, "but how many of them kept it up for as long as Altair?"

"Well beyond boyhood?" Malik points out.

"We all know how thick his head is," Hamid responds and turns back to the door. Clearly done with his duty. "Truly, little one, I am troubled at your blindness in this. It makes me question the decision to allow the both of you to lead the Brotherhood."

Hamid continues to grumble to himself as he lets himself out, and Malik is thrown right back to where she had started the night before.

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Aban says nothing at all. Not one word and that in and of itself is damning.

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"Did you have to tell everyone?" Malik asks when she feels she is not alone an longer.

"I have said how pathetic Altair can be, yes?" Malik looks over as Maria settles next to her on the roof of the basket weaver's workshop. A few crumbs caught in the corner of her mouth that she wipes away unselfconsciously.

"I do believe you mentioned it once or twice," and not just the day before.

"I do not think I can mention it enough," Maria's lips curl up in a sly smile that is a shade too much Aban for Malik. It is official, the woman has spent too much time with him. Perhaps this is why he had not said a single word to her earlier. He'd given them all to Maria. "Do you need me to arrange for more proof for you?"

"No," Malik snaps, because she has more than enough to think about as it is. "You've done enough damage as it is."

"You sound as if I have done something wrong," Maria settles herself into a comfortable seat. Leaning back on her hands and giving the air that she's settling in for a good long while. He voice turning mocking, "Have I forced you to think with my honesty?"

"Try not to sound so pleased," Malik stands and leaves. Surprised that Maria lets her without protest.

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Malik can think about the things she's been told. She can think about it for months or even years. Tease out hidden meanings -real or not- to events she has not thought twice about before. She can lose herself in wondering and guessing, or she can do what Maria had suggested from the beginning.

The Apple is not out when Altair calls for her to enter. There's a tiredness about him though that tells her he has been gazing into its depths not long ago. He's relaxed in his rooms, the robes of his office tossed carelessly aside, and he doesn't tense at all as she walks in. "Malik."

"Altair," Malik looks around the room that is still simple and almost empty even with the addition of a desk almost overflowing with papers and books. She realizes she's stalling and turns back to Altair with a frown. "Maria has told me that I should ask you about your feelings for me."

"Did she," Altair says, not a question, and the fingers of his right hand have tensed on the desk he leans against. No other reaction at all, and Malik knows it as a sign her words have hit the target. It's more sobering and real than any words said by her friends.

"Hamid and Aban seem to agree with her," Malik continues and watches Altair closely, though he does not try to hide anything. "They have said a great many things that I have apparently not noticed."

"Aban likes to talk," Altair remarks, but says nothing against Hamid. Malik waits, because Altair is not answering anything. "Tell me at least one of them called you blind."

Hamid had, and would again but she's not going to admit that just yet. "It may have been implied. Are you saying that you _are_ in love with me?"

Malik laughs and knows it is the wrong response immediately, but she can't help it. Can't stop the disbelief from showing because she fully expects Altair to snort and tell her she's being foolish. Or twist her words into a taunt. The barbs they trade now as harsh as they ever were before despite the fact that neither finds anger in them anymore.

Malik expects anything but the steady look she gets from him. His face perfectly blank in the way she's come to realize is his way of holding back an abyss of emotion. When he feels too much and does not want any of it to spill out for the whole world to see.

"Worse," Altair admits, voice low and raw like she's only heard it once before. In Jerusalem when she realized fully that she did not know Altair at all. And like then, he raises his head to face her head on. Not flinching back or shielding himself from her. "I _need_ you."

It feels like standing on the edge of a wooden plank for the first time. Toes hanging over open air as the world opens up before her. The wood shaking with another weight and Altair's voice low in her ear as he pushes her on. Always egging her to go further.

_Afraid? I didn't take you for a coward, Malik._

Is that what her refusal is? If it were anyone else, any person at all she would not be this surprised. Aban, Latif, Asif, even _Nizar_. She would not be this invested in denying even as Altair smiles bitterly. Taking her silence for more than it is.

"Don't concern yourself with this, Brother," Altair turns back to his desk and searches through the mess there. "I expect nothing from you, just having your help and respect is enough for me."

Confirmation is heavy on her mind, and Malik nods her acceptance. Needing to get away and _think_.

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Malik actually makes it to her room before she realizes she's being an idiot as well as a coward. Anyone else, she would not have been so surprised. Anyone else, she would not have left that room. Not until morning at least.

"Idiot," Malik snarls and turns right back around. Her word for herself as much as Altair for once.

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"Malik?" Altair startles when she lets herself in without knocking. Clearly not having expected her back at all. Nothing on his desk appears to have been touched since she left.

"I do not normally have this much trouble with my lovers," Malik steps in close and leans down, her fingers curling into the thin shirt he wears and watching his eyes go very focused. "That is not entirely your fault, and I will be upset if you try to imply it is."

Malik kisses him, and a familiar burn starts up low in her body. Altair doesn't resist or push her away. He kisses her back like she's precious. Something rare that needs to be savored. His hands run down her sides, fingers spread and detailing every bit of her they can through her clothing. Altair's face, when she breaks the kiss and pulls back a bit, is awed and his eyes almost worshipful as he stares at her.

He is not a man given to spoken words, Altair has always spoken best through actions, and his actions now underscore the words he said earlier. Making Malik's heart ache helplessly in a way that tells her this is not the mistake she feared it.

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Fingers ghost down her left arm, going lighter the closer to the end they get, and Malik nearly embarrasses herself when lips follow. Gentle in a way she never would have thought Altair capable of. Accepting the ruins of her arm in a way that no one has tried before, and perhaps more fully than anyone else ever could if they tried. There's an appology deep in the touch.

"Stop," Malik cups the back of his head and pulls him away, because this is not something she is capable of dealing with tonight. She has dealt with enough as it is.

Altair moves away without protest and knows better than to apologize. His fingers edge under the wrappings binding her chest. His eyes following his fingers. "Can I?"

"No," Malik pushes him back further, because Altair is moving slow and languid. Taking his time to savor every touch. Far slower than she can stand. She pulls at his clothing, demanding, "Remove this."

Altair doesn't argue with her and is finished with his clothing as she finishes with her boots. The slowest part of her undressing no matter how she has them altered. Her one hand still going faster than Altair's two hands had wanted to. He sits on his bed and watches her unashamedly. His cock heavy and swelling a bit without a touch as she loosens the sash of her pants and steps out of them.

Nine fingers waste no time mapping her exposed skin and pulling her down onto the bed with him. Kissing her hard as she rakes fingers through his hair. Nails lightly scratching down his shoulders and back as he settles over her.

Altair is a tall man, well muscled and fit. Malik knows she can throw him sometimes, and that she can't at others. He fits over her in a way that makes her clench at his bare back and regret briefly that she only has one hand to do it. The thought of throwing him fades away as he moves down her body. Lips dragging down her skin, and it has been too long since she last had anything but her own hand touch her.

Altair traces her scars with calloused hands and dry lips, and a hint of teeth that makes Malik's breathing catch hard. He bites harder and more often when he hears her moans. There's a smug look in the nearly molten gold of his eyes looking up at her. Malik shifts until she has a thigh between his legs, rubbing firmly against his cock, and drawing a loud groan from him.

There's nothing painful when Altair pushes into her, the slight burn of the stretch of him isn't harsh enough to qualify. Not with the way his hands and teeth distract her.

"Ah," Altair groans into her ear as he rolls his hips. Grinding into her, one hand holding him up over her and the other running down her left thigh. Urging her to push her leg out further, settling himself more firmly in the cradle of her legs as he rests there for a moment. Unmoving.

Malik takes the reprieve for all of a few seconds before she runs her nails down his back again. Harder in warning. "Move, or you'll regret not wearing armor."

"Demanding," Altair says with a pleased grin that steals slowly across his face, but he complies and Malik moans at the first slow thrust. She brings her right leg up, foot flat on the bed so she can move up to meet him.

"Faster!" Malik arches up but Altair refuses to let up, continues to move in her slowly. Deliberately as slow as he'd tried to start out with.

Impatient, Malik wraps her left leg firmly around him and _throws_ him. Rolling smoothly with him until he's below her. She shifts back because he's slipped out but Altair's hand is already guiding his cock back in. Not trying to roll her back over, accepting her taking control in a way that Malik isn't quite used to with male lovers. His free hand spread out on her thigh as he groans when she settles down around him again.

"Is that a request?" Altair asks, and Malik reaches down to smack the side of his abdomen before moving her hand up to splay across his chest. To support her weight as she leans forward, enjoying the sensation the shift gives her.

"No, it's an order," and Malik moves before he can say anything else. Using the muscles of her legs to move herself over him fast and hard as she wants. Forcing the pleasure from them both until it only takes a careless touch of Altair's hand -inexpert despite however many women he's been with- near where they're joined to make her cry out and tighten around him. Her head spinning so much she doesn't realize he's flipped them. Thrusts fast and hard, pulling more cries from her before he goes stiff and moans her name.

Malik's breathing hard still several minutes later. She feels it as Altair's seed slowly leaks out of her and down her thigh. She grimaces at the foreign feeling and turns her head to scowl at the man who's watching her with the most perfectly peaceful expression she's ever seen on his face. "I know you've been with enough women to know when to pull out."

"You did not object," a smirk slowly crawls across his face, but Altair doesn't move even when she curls her fist up threateningly.

She was a bit preoccupied to remember, but she doesn't say so. Altair's ego never needs to be stroked. "Get too comfortable doing that and you'll find yourself holding a squalling child too soon."

"Hm," one of his hands slides down her body and comes down between her legs. The thick fingers curl in a way that makes her shiver despite how her body is still coming down from her high. One finger slides in the path his seed has made, gathering it up, before it pushes inside of her. Altair's lips brush her ear as he moves his hand slowly. "And if I wanted that? Would you object then?"

Malik doesn't answer. Can't answer as Altair's hands coax her body back to life. Destroying her capacity for rational thought with languid shifts of his hand and a hungry gaze that doesn't leave her until she's nearly mad with pleasure and crying his name again.

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Malik wakes up with Altair pressed to her back. Both his arms wrapped firmly around her, and breathing slowly into her neck. She feels sated and content in a way that hasn't happened in a while. Body used and relaxed in the way that only happens when she reaches multiple orgasms.

She stretches, feeling her muscles pull and Altair makes a soft noise. A breath exhaling hard against her neck before her turns his head. Lips pressing to her in a sloppy but unmistakable kiss. The sun is up, but still low in the sky. Altair's voice is raspy and low. "Stay a bit?"

"Not had enough?" Malik mock protests even as her skin burns and shivers under his lazy touches.

"Never," Altair swears and Malik rolls so that he's under her again. Eyes half lidded, but focused intently on her. All of her. "You're going to be stuck with me for a while yet."

She is not in love with Altair, nowhere near to the level he is with her, but she knows him. She trusts him, counts him as a friend, and finds herself now lighting up for his touch. It is not the deep and mostly unselfish love he has, but Malik knows it is a start. A beginning that she feels confident will grow. Quickly because Altair has always managed to push her beyond the limits she thought herself limited by.

"I always have been," Malik traces the pale scar that bisects his lip, smooth scar against her calloused fingers, "ever since I gave you this."

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	33. Chapter 33

**Living Despite It All  
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**A Word: **And this looks like it for this story. I will not write to the end, but I do have quite a bit that will be added to the drabble series attached to this fic. Look for A Step Back And To The Side.

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The wrinkles in Hamid's face grow into deep crags when he smiles and contorts his face for the laughing child. Darim's chubby hands reaching for the old man's fingers as he coos and babbles. Malik looks up from the Jerusalem ledgers kept in Hamid's precise hand. His script familiar and concise in a way that makes her job infinitely easier to do.

"He'll favor his father in looks as he grows," Hamid says, his voice going raspy with age and the smoke he inhales too frequently these days now that he is too far from Masyaf for her to lecture him on it. He tugs at the finger Darim has a hold of and makes an exaggerated grimace. "But his strength is all yours, little one."

"I'm more concerned that he gets neither of our stubbornness," Malik admits to Hamid's delight as she finishes transferring her notes. A full day earlier than she'd planned. It will leave her with plenty of time to spend with Hamid. A luxury these days. Her duties in Masyaf seem to multiply the larger the Order grows.

"I had a grandson," Hamid says, and Malik nearly scratches out the letters she's written in surprise. She looks up but Hamid is still gazing down on Darim. Smile bright but eyes far away. "My daughter told me of his birth and brought him to see me. I was able to hold him. Just once."

Memories, bitter and painful even after what must have been years flash across his face as he cradles Darim close. Malik doesn't press for the details of them as Hamid draws a deep, shaky breath and brushes a kiss over Darim's head. His eyes are bright and very much _here_ when he looks up at her. "She told me his name was Malik."

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